


Flowers of Autumn

by Charmtion



Series: The Wolf and His Ward [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Forbidden Love, Happily Ever After... or is it?, House Stark, Iron Islands (Westeros), Ned Stark Lives, Power Couple, R Plus L Equals J, Robert Baratheon lives, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 103,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16795612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “Snow,” muses Ned, feeling the pull of sleep as Nell smooths her lullaby upon his skin. “Snow thick and free as the secrets we keep.” He sighs, breathes deep her scent of winter and wildflowers. “So many secrets, and now sickness and sorrow.” Her tapping has stopped, but he is too sleep-heavy to notice. “It’s a wonder we are not drowned by it all.”Robert Baratheon rules and the Lannisters are run from keep and castle; yet autumn slips as a shadow across the Seven Kingdoms, the three-headed dragon rises again in the east, and oaths of violet storm made beside a bed of blood haunt the dreams of the living.Ned Stark livesat the centre of it all - with hisloverby his side...





	1. Trial of Truth

Nell Northwood walks the cloistered pathways of the Red Keep. The morning is still and calm; the sun is halfway risen behind the eastern hills. Soft pink light limns all it touches, but there is little warmth to its rays and beams. She walks slow and steady, her slippered feet soundless, her silk skirts sweeping the cool flagstones. Clipped hedges of yew and evergreen peek over waist-height walls of pale crimson stone but gone are the pink petals and orange blossoms of summer. Bursts of yellow and purple and white take their place amongst the dark green leaves: dahlias, crocuses, cyclamen and snowdrops. _The first flowers of autumn_. Nell runs her fingers over their bobbing heads; their scent smokes and she breathes it in and gives a smile. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. She glances to her left: the master of whisperers is absent from his crook of cushions, but his perfume lingers still. She glides forward on soundless feet, the fur-trim of her cloak turned up to shield her throat from the chill of the morning.

It has been half a year since she arrived in King’s Landing. Half a year since she stepped from the blackwood body of _Storm Dancer_ and watched Catelyn Stark meet the eyes of a lord with a pointed beard and a silver mockingbird pinning his cloak. Half a year since her lady bid her stay in this city of smoke and blood to keep the girls safe and be a hand to help and heed. Half a year since she met her lord again in that room of hard kisses and furious hands. _Ned_. She thinks of him now and the fate that the south had planned for him: riot and ruin and a kiss of steel if he ever spoke of the secret he’d found buried deep in Malleon’s book. _Black and red and gold_. She thinks of her silver song that night Robert Baratheon learned of his queen’s betrayals; she remembers the fist of flame in rain-swept street as Jaime Lannister struck her hard and then fled the city. The flowers trail in streaks of indigo and yellow and pearl beneath her fingers and she lets herself think just for a moment how different it all could have been had she not been sent to help sort the chaos of Ned Stark’s lonely little keep.

Chaos burns low like a smouldering fire even now, threatening to take light and flare and turn all to ash – keep as well as kingdom. _The lioness may be caged below the Great Sept, but the pride remains scattered and prowling_. Casterly Rock has been ominously silent since news of Cersei Lannister’s arrest took wing from the maester’s rookery; but a knight in golden armour and crimson cloak has been glimpsed leading sorties into the riverlands. Fields and farmsteads smoke and smoulder whilst banners bearing lion and hound alike ripple in the burning air. Just as fast as they are put up, they are taken down. _Hacked free to make room for flags of trout and direwolf_. Stark and Tully stand as one to defend the three forks of the Trident; Ned’s call to his bannermen was carried home by his lady wife and brought back south with his son, Robb. _Lion and wolf drinking from the same grey stream with wary eyes and quick claws_. Nell wonders, not for the first time, which beast will strike for life’s blood first. She rubs her cheek against the fur-trim of her cloak and shudders, looking out to the city spilled dark as blood on the hills before her.

ლ

The Hand’s household are breaking their fast in the small hall by the time Nell slips in through the heavy oaken doors. Sunlight floods full and thick through the tall windows of leaded glass; shadows dance across trestle tables of ash and dapple grey-and-white cloaks and silver hand-pins. There are half a hundred more guards at the benches now than there were half a year ago. _Men of good sense brought out of the shadows now the head of the snake is pinned_. Nell takes her seat and feels a happy glow to see them with her lord’s pins and pledges holding up their cloaks and hearts. Septa Mordane sits to her right, carving up a piece of blackened bacon and relaying a tale of some saint or relic to the girls opposite. Sansa Stark and Jeyne Poole glance at each other with laughter in their eyes; Arya shoots Nell a bored look from beneath her wild hair. They share a conspiratorial smile before Nell glances to the head of the table.

Ned dips his head to her: a lord’s greeting to his loyal ward, no more. But his eyes tell of a different story – one of the smoke and soft heat and scent and spice of the night before. She bites her lip and looks at her plate, feels her cheeks flood with the sweet shame and surrender forbidden love is ever damned to bring. _Nine years_ , she thinks, _and still his stare turns my heart to flame, clouds my head like smoke, burns honour and duty to ash_ … She glances up at him again and thinks of his mouth on her throat as they moved together in moonlit shadow; he smiles at her knowingly.

“So, girls,” finishes Septa Mordane, her voice a rhythmic familiar drone. “Following such precedent of grace and piety, noble maidens all over the realm lay garlands of parchment about the Maiden’s neck and sing her songs of innocence.” She lifts the bacon to her mouth and then mops at her lips with a silk kerchief. “In a moon’s turn, you will do the same.” The septa’s bright eyes light on Sansa. “Your lady mother instructed me to bring with us the very gown she wore the last day she sank candles at the Maiden’s feet and sang her the song of the seven. It will look well enough on you, child.”

 _A gown of white and a crown of wildflowers on hair red as flame_. Nell gazes at Sansa across the ashwood table and feels love surge strong in her heart. The soft morning light sets the girl’s cheeks to cream, turns her auburn hair red and rich as her lady mother’s, and shines her Tully blue eyes to sapphires. _Cat’s own self_ … Littlefinger had called her such at the tourney of the Hand half a year ago, staring at the girl with hunger in his belly and silver light in his eyes. Nell fights the smoke of his words from her head and lifts her cup to her lips. _Wolf will no longer wed lion and I am glad of it for true – but other beasts lurk in the shadows and the mockingbird flits as prince amongst them all_. Ned had gritted his teeth and near ground them to dust to learn that Littlefinger had stepped unscathed from the market square that night of rain and riot. Somehow, the lord of silver eyes slithered as resilient as a snake from the bloody mess of his own making and emerged back at court one day as cool and quick as ever. _Still, he counts coins no more and hears nothing save for the little bells that jingle on his cap_. Nell smiles to herself and swirls the thin ale in her cup.

“What will happen to the queen today?” comes a loud little voice, cutting through Nell’s thoughts of silver words and shadows. Arya stares at her from beneath her fringe of dark hair, picking a heel of bread to crumbs in her hands.

“The queen will spend the morning on her knees in her penitent’s cell, child,” says Septa Mordane, her voice a whiplash in the air before Nell can form a reply. “A white-cloak will bring her before the high court, her charges will be read, a verdict will be reached, and she will return to her knees to pray – in thanks or fear, we cannot yet know.”

“And afterwards?” asks Arya, her eyes narrowing.

The small hall has fallen silent now; Nell feels the eyes of a hundred men land on their little circle of quiet words and wide-eyed girls. Arya looks from her to the septa and back again, frowning. Nell hears Ned clear his throat and feels relief flood her cheeks that she will not have to answer Arya’s questions. She watches as he rests his gaze on his daughter’s dark head. _Gone are lover’s eyes and playful smile_. He looks a solemn stranger. _He wears his lord’s face now as Bran is like to call it_.

“Cersei Lannister is charged with high treason and crimes of conspiracy, adultery and incest,” says Ned, his voice as calm as if he were sitting the small council. “Her trial will be presided over by King Robert and a handful of lords and septons.” He gives a tense smile to see his daughter’s eyes grow wide. “I will sit at the king’s right hand and remind him of mercy should the other lords bay for blood.”

“Let them have it,” pipes Arya, her voice as prickly as her eyes. “I’ve heard tell it was a lion’s paw that pushed my brother from his window.” She sets down the ruined heel of bread and scowls. “They talk of nothing else in the bailey but mounting the queen’s head on a spike along Traitor’s Walk.”

The smile has gone from Ned’s face. The hall is silent, waiting, holding its breath; his eyes are black and cold as he stares at every man looking at him from the ashwood table. Nell feels a thrill of fear bloom in her blood to see him so. _He is not Ned now – he is not lover or husband or father_. She looks from Arya’s pale face to Ned’s cool eyes. _He is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell in this moment, he is the Warden of the North, he is the Hand of the King, he is fire and ice and snow and storm_ …

“Tell me, Arya Stark,” says Ned, his voice low and smoky. “These men who throw words and blades as easy as breath in the bailey – would they swing the sword that strikes their sentence?” He leans forward in his chair and his eyes are pale as ice above his wild black beard. “Would they look into the eyes of the lion before they took its pelt?”

Arya makes a sour face and shakes her head; Ned looks from her to the hundred eyes intent on him around the trestle table and taps the ashwood with his hand.

“The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” His voice carries like thunder across the small hall. “If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words… if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.” He rises from his seat and straightens the golden collar of clasped hands about his neck. “Cersei Lannister will get a trial that befits her birth and standing – and I will sit at Robert’s right hand and remind him of mercy even as lords and bailey boys alike bay for blood.”

Ned leaves the small hall in a flurry of grey-and-white cloaks and silver hand-pins flashing brightly in the sunlight. A handful remain seated at the trestle table of ash and set to talking busily to dull the sting of his words. Sansa and Jeyne giggle and gush about their gowns for Maiden’s Day whilst the septa studiously spears her blackened bacon. Arya lifts her head from her plate; Nell meets her stare and gives her a soft little smile. _So sweet, so innocent_. She looks at the child’s sleek dark head and worried eyes. _I would sink any heat that hurt her, for true_. Love fills her heart even as fear clouds her head; she bites it back until Arya finally returns her smile and the queen’s trial of truth is forgotten – just for a moment.

ლ

Moonlight turns the Red Keep to silver and white when at last Ned slips back up the stone stair of the Tower of the Hand. His shoulders ache, his neck hurts, and his head is a pulse of fire from a day spent drawing charges and watching king and queen spit venom at each other like cornered serpents. His ears ring with the sound of half a dozen lords clamouring to talk at once; each desperate to state their truth and hail their sentence. _Black and white and grey_ , thinks Ned, _all the shades of truth_. Wheels upon wheels; the trial had fast slipped to chaos and disorder. _Black and white and grey_ … He finds the door he seeks and shuts it quietly behind him, his boots whispering across the flagstones.

The room is a red-warm glow; moonlight slips in through the leaded windows and limns the curtains of the bed in half a hundred shades of gold and yellow light. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting shadows and shapes to dance across the oaken chest at the foot of the bed. Her gown of silver-smoke silk lays across it, her dainty slippers tucked neatly alongside. He crosses the room soundlessly and parts the red curtains of the bed, his breath catching in his throat.

She is naked and rosy in the fireflame, her hair a cloud of ink blotting the pillows, her full lips parted in the soft breath of sleep. He looks down at her so soft in sleep and feels his heart swell beneath his ribs. _Hearth and home and heart tree – she is all three to me_. He runs the silver chain about her neck through his fingers, smooths the wolf’s head pendant with his thumb. _What is honour compared with smoke and sound and silver light?_ His fingers stray to run her black hair back from her brow. _What is duty in place of love?_ Even in sleep, she arches toward his touch; his face breaks into a soft smile despite the pain in his head and the grief in his heart.

Nell makes a gentle sound and raises her head to blink up at him sleepily. He looks down at her, the half-smile soft on his lips, and watches with amusement as she frowns and focusses and pouts at him, her eyes caught halfway between dreams and wakefulness. She is silent for a moment before she rolls toward him, helping him from cloak and doublet and boots and drawing him down beside her on the little red-curtained featherbed. He slips his arms around her, feels the pain in his head begin to lessen as her cheek rests heavy on his chest, as her skin presses warm and soft against him.

“The restless wolf returns,” she whispers, her voice husky from sleep. “Did his howls join those lords who bayed for blood?”

Ned shakes his head and gathers her closer to his chest, his lips marking her brow and breathing in her scent of wildflowers and winter.

“Cersei Lannister has demanded a trial by combat,” he says, his voice quiet and indifferent; Nell feels his heart thrum against her cheek. “She waits in her penitent’s cell for her knight of white and gold to rescue her as he has always done… little does she know that the Kingslayer is fled to the westerlands.” His hand stills on her dark hair before slipping to whisper across the cheek Jaime Lannister’s hand of gold and flame struck purple and black; she shivers against his touch. “Robert rages like a bull and makes motions to forgo the trial altogether – he wants nothing so much as a bloody end to this whole affair.” _Black and white and grey_. Ned closes his eyes and sighs.

Nell is still and quiet in his arms; Ned watches as her fingers tap a steady rhythm against the plump muscle of his chest and hears her hum soft and rich as the golden light spilling in through the shutters. “And her children?” she asks. “What of them if Robert charges through court and conscience like a crazed bull?”

“Their bodies will lie beside their mother’s in the crypts of Casterly Rock,” says Ned, low and sad. “Robert will show mercy only if Cersei gives in to her fate… but a lion is a proud creature, a lioness even prouder.” He meets Nell’s eyes as she lifts her head from his chest and stares up at him, her black hair a rumple of curls framing her face. “I fear this mess of blood and fire is about to get ever bloodier, my love.”

“Step by step, remember,” whispers Nell, lifting her face and meeting his searching lips. “Mockingbird is remade to motley.” She kisses him slow and soft, hears the moan low in his throat. “Spider spins his web of silk and stays true in the shadows.” His fingers trail down the column of her throat; she shudders into his kiss. “Stag and wolf move as one with salt water.” They search each other’s eyes. “And lioness can be swayed so long as we hold her cubs.” He rolls her onto her back and drinks deep her mouth, his hands running from her throat to her waist. She strokes back the dark hair from his brow. “Step by step, my love. Step by step.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _The blood of the First Men_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 1: Bran I.  
> 2\. _Black and white and grey_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 43: Eddard XI.  
> 3\. Stag survives, wolf prowls, lion roars, fire rages… can salt water stem the flames?


	2. Men and Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

The world is still dark when Ned wakes; the curtains of the bed flutter in a hazy black-red glow and the castle is quiet. He frowns up at the rich red canopy stretched above the bed and wonders when last he had a deep and dreamless sleep. _A lifetime ago_ , he thinks grimly, _when the world was young and life was simple_. He is easing himself up against the pillows when he hears it: that soft lilting murmur lifting in song.

He looks down with love heavy in his heart to see Nell humming in her sleep, her fine black brows flickering, her fingers twisting into the linen sheets. Her hair is a splash of ink across the pillows; the black-red glow seeps in through the shutters and limns it bright as flame. He reaches out to stroke an ebony curl back from her face. For a moment, all is good and quiet with the world as he watches her sleep sound and soft by his side. Gradually thought filters back with wakefulness. Soon his head is a swirl of smoke and sound: lords bickering, king raging, queen roaring, riverlands burning. _Black and white and grey_. He runs a hand over his brow and sighs.

A flare of black-red light catches the wolf’s head pendant strung on its silver chain about her neck. Ned’s eyes settle on it. He remembers the day he looped it around her neck: a day that smelt of salt and seaspray as he led her from her home of black rock and storm. He runs the chain between his fingers now, smooths the pendant with his thumb. He sits quietly, listening to her soft breathing, watching the bloody light play on the silver wolf’s head in his hand. Soon enough, the world of men and gods will rush in and carry him away from the red-warm room where he finds his only peace. Soon it will be doublet and cloak and badge of office and half a hundred men clamouring to talk at once. Soon it will be a hard chair and a sea of voices as he dons his lord’s face and sits the small council. _Soon enough_. He trails a finger down the column of her throat and shudders. _But not yet… not yet_.

ლ

Nell wakes to the heat of a hand on her thigh. The room is cool, the hand is hot. It takes a moment for her to realise that it is not her hand, and then there is warmth on her nipple. She starts, her hands rising up and muscles clenching. A muffle of sheets and a murmur. She looks down at herself and grey eyes are looking up at her. A crown of smooth dark hair, a straight nose and a pair of firm lips playing at her breast. She relaxes almost immediately, her grimace fades to a soft smile, her hands drop down to stroke back the hair fallen over his brow. Ned continues his slow nursing of the red scratches and teeth-marks on her breast and collarbone, and his hand begins a slow caress where it rests on her thigh.

Her head tilts back slightly as his thumb traces small circles against her skin, as his tongue darts across her nipple. It is delicious: the heat of his hands and mouth, the coolness of the red-draped room and linen, the harsh glow of pre-dawn light at the window. She rubs his earlobes between her thumb and forefinger now and feels her hips surge and move as he gives a little groan in his throat. Looking down at him, she bites her lip. He sees her teeth flash across her bottom lip and he gives a little smirk and dents her nipple lightly with his teeth. She moans softly. He breathes a little deeper then, his nose pressed flat to her skin as he suckles on her now. Soft but strong, slow but steady, her nipple peaks and hardens in the warm cave of his mouth.

His fingers skate across her hips now, tracing the indents of bone and blood and muscle, before sweeping down. Her legs open reflexively to his touch and he cups her cunt in his palm for a moment, lets her buck and moan against his hold. Then his thumb begins a dance of its own between her slick hot folds and gradually her head falls back amongst the pillows and she lets out a rattling sigh. He covers her other breast in kisses, teases it with his lips and tongue till both her nipples are pink and stiff. He runs his forehead between her breasts now, and his hands move from her thighs to her hips and push her up against the pillows. Then his mouth is on her belly, and his tongue circles her navel; she squirms and surges toward his touch. He looks up and meets her narrowing eyes as his mouth closes on the glow of warmth between her legs. He kisses and sucks at her cunt as he did her nipple. Only this is different, this makes her delirious. It is spice and fire and explosions and she can’t stop herself from panting. His fingers sink into her hips, burning the flesh white, and he lets her press herself up against his wild black beard as he plays her with his lips and tongue. He has found his rhythm now. Her hips quiver, the muscles of her thighs quake. Again, that little groan rips from his throat as he tastes her beckoning closure. She looks from the bed’s canopy to him, and the sight of his head buried between her thighs makes her whimper with pain and pleasure and desire and her hips swim and her heart bursts and there it is – there it is.

His mouth continues its soft little draw as she comes, as her hips tighten and rise up from the featherbed, as her breath races and her mouth opens in a feral cry. She falls back exhausted, her throat sore and racing with snatched breath, and she is dimly aware of his belly skating hers, of his mouth on her breast again, then she is parting her legs and gripping his back and guiding him into her. He moves within her slowly at first, his lips leaving a trail of ice to burn the skin of her throat. Gradually his thrusts quicken, deepen. His forehead comes to rest on hers and she watches as his lips part and eyes narrow and feels his brow flicker against hers as his pleasure builds. She brings her knees up higher and raises her hips to meet his quickening rhythm. The weary delicious heaviness of hinting closure swims against her skin and she runs her hands up and down his back and whimpers.

“Oh gods,” she sighs through open lips. He bites her neck and then jams his forehead against hers again. “ _Ned_.” Deeper, still deeper; he is using her now, chasing his pleasure as much as her own, and she likes it. She likes the shining masculine triumph in his grey eyes, the rough confidence with which he handles her hips and jerks her chin.

“Nell,” he chokes. “ _Nell_.”

Her hips swim at his growl and she throws back her head as darts of pleasure start at her womb and radiate throughout her body. She cries out, once, twice, three times and rakes her nails across his shoulder blades as her climax rocks her body and turns her brain to dust. His mouth is somewhere near her ear now, she can feel his hot breath on her lobe and neck. His teeth sink into her throat as he continues moving against her, then his rhythm stops and starts and he shouts something guttural in that northman’s tongue and she feels him explode inside her. He collapses on top of her, his head against her breasts, his body heavy and warm and solid against her own.

They lie there, sweat-slicked and panting, for what seems an age, before he looks up from her breasts and their lips part in a smile. She pushes his hair back from his brow and then knots her fingers into the black mass of beard that covers half his face. He catches her hand and presses a kiss to her palm.

“Ned Stark,” she murmurs, her voice heavy from sleep and surrender. “I should slit your throat for stealing into my room in the dead of night… _again_.”

His smile widens then and her heart hurts with love to look at him. She tilts her head for a kiss; he moves up from her breasts and takes her lips with his. “Would you deny a man his only comfort, for true?” His voice is husky as he draws back from her kiss and rubs his nose gently against hers. She groans when his hand brushes, feather-light, against her thighs. “As cold and cruel as the sea, aren’t you, Nellie Northwood?” She nods and bites her lip; they smirk at each other until he traces his finger around her thrumming core. He dips his head and steals the moan from her lips. “But this little cunt,” he murmurs, and she groans to hear that rough word fall from him, “is always so hot and quick to welcome me.” Her mouth opens onto his. He takes her tongue into his mouth and kisses her deeply for a moment, his finger circling softly, her moans building, her hands clutching at him and leaving little crescent marks from her nails on his forearm – and then he withdraws suddenly and stands up, stretching and yawning as he looks out through the window, chuckling at her frustrated whine.

“It _was_ hot and getting quicker,” she growls, sitting up with mussed hair and scratches on her neck. “In future it will be shut tight as a castle gate against you, Eddard Stark.” She stands and stretches, the skin pulling tight against her ribs, the bones momentarily rippling up like breeze through silk. He holds out his hand, smiling still, and pulls her beneath his arm as they look out to the city spilling like dark wine before them. She glances up at him and sees the smile and smoke of their pleasure fading already from his face; storm darkens his eyes and joy turns to lead in her heart. She catches his chin in her hand and turns him to look at her. “Step by step, my love, remember?”

Ned gives her a little half-smile and draws her tight to him, his fingers tracing the soft skin of her hip. “I’ll go to the trial of red-and-gold with the shape of you still warm in my hands,” he whispers, dipping his head and taking her upturned kiss. “And I’ll remember, Nell Northwood… I’ll remember.”

ლ

Noon finds Nell sitting in the shadow of the Tower of the Hand. Septa Mordane herded Sansa and Jeyne Poole into the sept long before the sun reached the crest of the sky; they place candles and pray to each of their seven gods to throw the light of wisdom and mercy upon the trial of red-and-gold. _What good are songs and prayers when it is men who rule in place of gods?_ Nell thinks of the gods she has known and chanted to all her life: gods of iron and salt and sea, gods of forest and leaf and snow, gods of silver words and shadows. Some have hurt her, some have healed – yet one constant has remained: men will move to mercy or murder no matter what godly prayers and songs are thrown against them. She shudders in the bright sunshine of the middle bailey, remembering the iron grip of Balon Greyjoy as he dragged her from castle to tide-line and plunged her head beneath the waves. She had prayed to the Drowned God even as his watery embrace rushed to crush her, but it was not a god who saved her: it was Ned.

She sees him now as he was nine years past in a surcoat of white and grey, his beard black with blood, his eyes dark in his grim little face. He had sat up on the high table beside Robert Baratheon for the victory feast hoisted over Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion; his grey eyes had turned to damp deep pools when she sang a song of silver light that echoed across time and space in that smoky black hall. _Nine years past_. She circles the silver wolf’s head at her throat. _And still I remember his starlit eyes and still I keep his gift of silver close to my heart_.

Her eyes fall on the swordplay ringing in the dappled sunlight of the middle bailey. Arya parries and steps light as a feather, hefting Needle as graceful as a dancer; Syrio Forel moves sleek as a shadow, his voice chiming out soft instructions every now and then. Nell feels her heart swell to see the concentration flickering on Arya’s face, but she bites back her smile and frowns. Duty dashes with dishonour; sadness clouds her eyes like smoke. _How do I keep my promise to their lady mother to guard her girls when every beat of my blood betrays her and them?_ She shakes her head, sighs angrily to herself as the scratches on her neck ache for Ned’s lips to sooth them.

“The lady of the salt winds sounds as low and broody as the swirling sunset sea,” comes a voice from the shadows. “I trust she is well in keeping?”

Nell fights from her thoughts and turns to where the master of whisperers floats forward in a cloud of powder and perfume. He is plump and preened in his soft robes of lavender silk, his white hands folded amongst draped sleeves. He sways toward her and sits on the stone bench beside her. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. His flowery scent envelopes them thick and full as the sunlight flooding the middle bailey.

“I am well enough, Lord Varys,” says Nell, dipping her head in greeting and turning her eyes from the parries and strikes of Arya and her dance-master. She meets his eyes, bright and gleaming. “You do not sit the high court along with wolf and stag?”

Varys gives a soft chuckle. “King Robert would rather cut off his antlers than see a spider pass judgement on the little lioness.” He twists his hands in his lap. “The king has no love for spiders, sneaks and eunuchs.” He gives a comic shudder. “My little birds keep me busy enough without the added distraction of bringing death and destruction to House Lannister… in fact, it seems the lions are quite intent to bring that upon themselves.”

Nell meets his eyes, flashing dark and bright all at once, and tilts her head to one side as the sound of steel plays a sharp song across the middle bailey. “Is there news from the riverlands?” Ravens arrive steady as black shadows to the Red Keep’s rookery; Ned has shared with her some of Robb’s inventories and reports. Many a night they have gone to bed with the gloomy threat of strife hanging thick as fire over them. _Keep and kingdom are holding their breath for a strike poised to fall_. Nell frowns. “Does Tywin Lannister stir at last from his nest of rock and coin?”

Varys raises a brow and tweaks the lavender silk of his sleeve. “The villages peppering the banks of the Mummer’s Ford are nought but soot and ash,” he says softly. “Beric Dondarrion fought tooth and nail against Gregor Clegane’s raiders… but the Mountain prevailed.” He hums a little beneath his breath. “Tywin Lannister makes no move to call his dog to heel – not whilst Tyrion slips as a shadow through the Mountains of the Moon and Cersei kisses the iron of her cage in place of her knight of white and gold.” His eyes are damp and mournful. “Robb Stark fights as bravely as his father did that night of rain and riot… yet Jaime Lannister slips from his fingers as he did from smoky market square, leaving a trail of blood and fire just as he left you in that river of rainwater.”

“Cersei knows nothing of this?” asks Nell, her eyes narrowing.

Varys gives a little _tsk_ and shakes his head at her. “Lion and mockingbird sought to plunge the city into chaos that night of rain and riot,” he reminds her quietly. “Thanks to your silver song, the city remains in order… but the lion’s paw threatens always to spill chaos from kingdom to keep – and that I cannot abide.” He meets her eyes. “Spider moves with wolf and salt sea still.”

“How long will it stay as so?” says Nell, a grim smile settling on her lips.

“For as long as our good Hand administers to the realm with grace and truth,” says Varys quick and soft. “For as long as his handmaid spins her silver songs to save it.” He inclines his head. “For as long as we are all where the realm needs us: here and breathing on this redstone riverbank.”

Nell nods her head. “It seems to me that the lion’s paw moves to sweep us all into the river, Lord Varys.” Their eyes flash in the sunlight. “For as long as their queen holds out in her iron cage, they will show their teeth and fight to defend the pride.” She watches the silver light in his gaze. “Web of silk and web of storm moved together once… they tied down a lion but still she roars.”

“What say you to them weaving as one once again?” says Varys, smile as soft and sweet as his perfume. “Mayhap they could knot a noose instead of a web, my lady.”

Nell stares at him with dread in her heart. “My hands are clean in this city of blood and fire,” she says quietly. “Another web would brush from skin like silk… but a noose? A noose would paint them black and red and gold.”

The master of whisperers stares at her with something like pity dappling his bright eyes. “Half a year since you took ship from White Harbor to King’s Landing,” he says softly. “You arrived here a green girl ready to be swallowed by the belly of the beast.” He spreads his hands and his eyes slip to show the pale crimson walls of the Red Keep. “Your lovesick lord was a shadow before you came, as green as you to the ways of the south and as soft to the claws and teeth that surrounded him as Hand of the King.” He meets her eyes with a grim little smile. “The wolf showed himself only when his ward was returned to him… I saw it all from the shadows, my lady of the salt winds.” Sunlight chases across his powdered cheeks. “Make no mistake, Cersei Lannister saw it too – and she grew to fear you almost as much as she feared her husband’s greatest friend: a man Robert would not strike and a maid Eddard Stark could not live without.” His smile grows. “It is a pretty little riddle, is it not?”

 _Politics and plots, flatterers and fools_. Nell’s head swims with the intrigue that covers King’s Landing like a well-worn cloak. “A pretty riddle, Lord Varys, for true,” she says quietly. “But what power have riddles in this court of dust and dagger?”

His eyes gleam on hers. “Power resides only where men believe it resides,” he says, his hands twisting in his sleeves. “Power is a shadow on the wall… yet shadows can kill.” He tilts his head, his bittersweet perfume clouding her like smoke. “And ofttimes a very small figure can cast a very large shadow.” His hand reaches up, lightning-fast, and his soft white fingers trail feather-light across her cheek. “You will move as a shadow across sleeping city this night, my lady of the salt winds, and with noose of silk you will strangle the lioness’s roar to pin the lion’s claw.” He smiles at her bright as his eyes. “You will keep us where the realm needs us: here and breathing on this redstone riverbank.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. For more glimpses of Nell’s backstory/Ned’s taking of her from the Iron Islands see the first part of this series: _Hearth, Home and Heart Tree_ (Chapters 2, 3, 8, 15, 17, 19 and 20).  
> 2\. _Power resides only where men believe it resides_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Clash of Kings_ Chapter 8: Tyrion II.  
>  3\. The trial of truth continues whilst lion and hound turn the riverlands to soot and smoke... will spider and salt water spin a web to strangle both?


	3. Wildfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NSFW**.

Shadows dance across the white marble of the Great Sept; the seven crystal towers are dappled silver and ivory and grey as clouds pass across the moon. The great plaza is empty at this hour save for the hulking statue of Baelor himself and the lithe shape that passes beneath it. Quick of foot and soft of breath, Nell mounts the cold white steps and disappears through the brass doors to pass as a shadow along the Hall of Lamps. Globes of coloured glass float above her, sending half a hundred dapples of dark and light to flicker across the tight-woven wool of her hood. _Web of silk and web of storm_. She finds the twisting white-stone stair leading to the crypts below the sept and follows its turns and dips. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw, strangle the roar to pin the claw_ … the words swirl in her head like smoke as she emerges from the flooded coldness of the crypts and snatches up a torch to light her way through the belly of Baelor’s sept.

The penitent cells are near as cold as the crypts; they run in a line of iron bars and wooden doors as far as she can see. _Foul things move down here in the bowels of the beast_ , thinks Nell grimly, _whether it is the penitents or the Faith that holds them who can say_. The torch casts a narrow curtain of light, limning the frigid flagstones ghostly white as her footsteps move soundless as her shadow across them. She is halfway down the narrow corridor when a flicker of movement catches her eye; she turns her torch and peers in through the iron bars of the cell.

Cersei Lannister is queen no more as she crouches at the back of her cell. In place of cherry-red silk she wears a roughspun dress and moth-eaten slippers. Her fingers are bare of jewels, her throat free of gemstones – but her hair is gold and shines bright as coin in the firelight of the torch. _And her eyes are emeralds true_. They rise green and wide from the earthen floor and glare out through the iron bars; they shine like wildfire, fierce and proud as ever. The lioness searches through the half-light and her brows lift to see the face looming pale as the moon without. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw_ …

“Siren,” says Cersei, her voice glacial. “The seawitch who sang so beautifully the tale of my destruction.” She rises from her crouch and slowly makes her way toward Nell, stepping as graceful as a dancer. “Tell me, what does it feel like to be loved by a coward?” Her tone is warmer now, her eyes flickering. “Three times Lord Stark has sent his handmaid to do his bloody bidding.” She lifts her hand with three slender fingers upheld. “Once to meet my golden brother in a square of rain and riot, once to sing a silver song of secrets… and now to rile the lioness where she rests in the cage he placed her in.” Her hand closes to a fist. “Lord Stark’s honour melts as fast as southern snows.”

“He gave you a trial,” says Nell, her voice calm and cool, the hood slipping back from her hair. “It is tenfold more than you’d have given him.” She tilts her head and meets Cersei’s blazing eyes. “Stag and wolf gone in the same swipe of steel, was that your plan?” She smiles thinly, feels triumph and tragedy bleed as one in her bones. “Mayhap it would have been a pinch of poison in my lord’s cup as you did to Jon Arryn.” Cersei shakes her head very slightly and Nell seizes on it. “No? Mayhap you would have marched my lord to the steps of the sept you now sit below. Made him a fool before a crowd of thousands and threatened to stain marble with blood… but he slipped from your claws and now you wear the motley meant for him, Lady Lannister.”

“If only you had stayed in Winterfell, Lady Northwood,” says Cersei, her green eyes dull. “How different things could have been if the handmaid had stayed home.” She gives a bitter little laugh. “Malleon’s book would have grown dusty along with its secrets and blade or belladonna would have done for the Hand who sought to share them with his king.” Her mirth stops in an instant. “Joffrey would sit the Iron Throne whilst the stag rotted in his lonely little crypt. Myrcella would grow as beautiful as her mother and twice as sweet. Tommen would thrive in faith and comfort to be best of them all. My brother would stand beside them with cloak of snow and sword of gold… and I would be there at his side.” Her eyes flash. “If only the handmaid had stayed home.”

“Stag grows stronger day by day,” replies Nell, her voice ice and fire. “Wolf prowls loyal and fierce as ever by his side.” She blinks and fights the tightness in her throat. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw_. “Myrcella cries for her mother, Tommen holds tight to his kitten and weeps constantly. Joffrey rages and turns his hands to bloody ruin, his walls to scarlet stains.” She watches as Cersei sinks to her knees on the earthen floor. “So intent on the hunt for stag and wolf were you that you left your cubs soft and vulnerable in a court of claws and teeth.” Nell’s face is tense, her heart is heavy. “You were their _armour_ , Cersei Lannister, and now they are naked.”

“Jaime will protect them!” the shout bursts from Cersei and her eyes are the twisting jade and emerald of wildfire. “Jaime will _die_ before he – ”

“Jaime Lannister fled the city the same night he struck Eddard Stark’s handmaid from her horse,” says Nell, every word dragging like ice up her throat. “He leads a warband with Gregor Clegane in the riverlands, burning and pillaging the pathways of the three-forked Trident.” She can take no joy from the raw grief in the queen’s emerald gaze; she wants to weep even as she knows how different it would be had Cersei moved quicker than wolf and stag and spider and salt water. “Lord Tywin sends hound and lion out where he sits safe behind the walls of Casterly Rock whilst Tyrion Lannister slips as a shadow in the Mountains of the Moon with whispers that a ragged host of clansmen follow him.” She takes a step closer to the cage. “The pride survives, for true, but it is scattered across ford and forest and not a single beast in its ranks makes move to save the lioness and her mewling cubs.”

“Please – ”

Nell holds up a hand and looks with glittering eyes at the queen of red-and-gold on her knees in roughspun dress beneath the Great Sept. “It is too late for you, my lady,” she says softly. “But your children… there is still time.” She crouches down and meets the eyes of emerald through the iron bars. “Confess your crimes, go quietly to the headsman, and die with grace… Joffrey will take the black and Tommen and Myrcella will go to the Faith.”

“And should I refuse to die as a mouse and stride as lioness instead?” asks Cersei, a flash of fire burning up the grief in her green eyes. “What then, Lady Northwood?”

“Then the king will get what he desires most,” says Nell, soft and sad. “The golden head of his queen… and three dead cubs.”

Cersei Lannister does not cry; Nell wonders if ever she has shed tears. Instead, she reaches out a hand through the iron bars. Nell looks down at the slender white fingers bare of jewels and gemstones and takes them lightly in her own. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw_. The mantra is a flood of red-and-gold, a swirl of smoke threatening to tangle her throat and make her cough and splutter. Cersei grips her hand tightly and their eyes meet: handmaid and crimson queen. _Her eyes are emeralds true_. Nell sets her face. _But in a flash they would turn to wildfire and put everything I hold dear to flame_. She thinks of the three-forked Trident and the northmen who fight to defend it from hound and lion, she thinks of Robb wearing his lord’s face and commanding his father’s bannermen, she thinks of Catelyn’s blue Tully eyes, and Arya and Sansa and their merry little household saved from the hands of chaos who sought to smash it that night of rain and riot. _And Ned_. Her heart surges and bursts like salt water on rock and she knows in an instant as she gazes into emerald eyes that the lioness would have seen him dead and desecrated for the secrets he learned. _My sweet Ned_. Her throat aches and her head is a pulse of fire, but she thinks of all she loves and she firms her heart and stares into the eyes of wildfire before her.

“Robert would see them cold and dead beside me in the crypts of Casterly Rock,” says Cersei, suspicion flooding with relief in her eyes. “Why are you offering my children this chance?”

“For the love of a coward,” says Nell, ice and fire bright in her gaze. “Eddard Stark is a good man, a _true_ man. His honour stands as steadfast here in the south as it did amongst the snows of home.” She gives a half-smile. “And I know what it is to live beneath the sweet shame that forbidden love is ever damned to bring.” Nell rises and draws Cersei to her feet. “You have done half a dozen good deeds in your life and half a thousand bad… but I have no doubt you did them all for love, my lady.”

“Love is a poison,” says Cersei bitterly. “A sweet poison, yes – but it will kill you all the same.” Tears glitter now in those brilliant green eyes. “My brother has taught me that, and I will go to my death with his lesson on my lips.”

“Your brother?” asks Nell softly. “Or your lover?”

“Both,” says Cersei unflinchingly. “Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is inside me, I feel… _whole_.” Her lips lift in the ghost of a smile. “I love my brother with all that is in me, Lady Northwood – and I love the children we made together, too.” The smile fades from her face. “Yet he is fled and I am near dead and our cubs are caught in the cage of a stag’s antlers.” She narrows her eyes and digs her nails into Nell’s hand. “How am I to know that those antlers won’t pierce soft hearts as soon as I am dead? How am I to know the wolf won’t add his teeth to aid the slaughter of the lambs?”

“I am only a handmaid of the salt winds,” says Nell softly. “Sworn to serve House Stark with the grace and courage the gods see fit to give me.” She pulls her fingers gently from Cersei’s grip; they watch each other through the bars of the cell. “But I’ll tell you again, Cersei Lannister, and I’ll tell you true: Eddard Stark is a good man.” Her eyes flash in the torchlight. “He does not kill children – and he will see yours safe and well.”

A tear falls down Cersei’s cheek now; a diamond drop sparkling from emerald eye to dapple in the twisting glare of fireflame. _The crown is gone_ , thinks Nell, _but she stands every inch a queen_. They watch each other in the half-light as Nell steps back from the iron bars and draws the woollen hood back up over her hair.

“I will die as a mouse,” says Cersei, her voice scarce more than a breath. “But I’ll have two promises from you.” Her eyes light as wildfire to see Nell dip her head. “You will see my children safe and well and far away from the antlers that cage them to keep and castle.” Her voice lowers till it is as dancing and dangerous as thunder. “And if you ever see my brother again, you will take his golden sword and plunge it through his craven heart for fleeing from his family.” Her nostrils flare, her teeth grit, her eyes flash, she looks every bit the lioness that is her sigil; Nell shivers. “No forbidden love is ever bloodless, Elenore Northwood… remember that.”

ლ

Ned dreams an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood. They are seven facing three: grey wraiths on horses made of mist, shadowy swords glinting steel-sharp in the setting sun. It is a dream of red and white and black: mountains and cloaks and rose petals swirling thick as smoke in the air. Steel meets shadow and from the crumbling tower a scream sounds across the blood-streaked sky. “ _Eddard_!” He looks for Lyanna and moves weightless as a wraith toward his sister. He flies the steps of red stone. A storm of rose petals and the smell of blood still heavy after all these years. An oath of violet eyes that haunts him always. He sees those eyes now bursting like purple flowers in the dark.

“Ned,” calls Lyanna softly from her bed of blood.

“I promise,” whispers Ned. “Lya, I promise…”

“ _Ned_ ,” a soft voice echoes from the dark. “My love, look at me.”

Ned opens his eyes; moonlight floods his bedchamber at the top of the Tower of the Hand. He blinks, caught halfway between dreams and wakefulness, and feels a hand as soft as the voice smooth back the dark hair from his brow. He catches the tiny wrist in his great fingers and pulls the shadow down onto his bed. “Nell.” His voice is a breath, thready with relief. “ _Nell_.” He buries his face in her dark hair and breathes deep the scent of her: that heady perfume of scented oil, flowers and sweetness that is Nell’s and Nell’s alone. She is silver light and fireflame and meadowsweets and _life_ ; he drinks her in and fights from the demons of his dreams. “Where have you been?”

“The Great Sept,” whispers Nell, rolling to sit astride him, the moonlight playing silver and ivory on her tumble of black curls. “I am done with talk this night, Ned Stark.” Her eyes are troubled. “I need to feel you, my love.” Her lip trembles and she threads her fingers through his and draws his hands to her waist; he traces soft circles with his thumbs and she shudders. “I need to know that you are here… that you are _mine_.”

He reaches for her wordlessly, slips the silk from her body and sets his hands on her skin. She shivers into his touch and leans down to level her face with his. His lips glance hers as her fingers spread and press into the plump muscles of his chest. Her eyes are a sea-storm in the moonlit room, wild and wind-whipped as the waves of her home; he searches her gaze with his own. She shuts her eyes, her brow flickering, and sinks her mouth on his. Their kiss is deep and endless, full of a desperation he has never felt before. It takes a moment before he becomes alive beneath her, dragged from his dream of red and white and black, set hard and hungry now between the smooth skin of her thighs and the silk of her lips. He grabs fistfuls of her hair and wrenches her head up to deepen his kiss. She moans into his mouth as her nails mark his skin. They are ice and iron, salt and snow, grappling with each other as he turns her beneath his body and drags a hand between her legs. She whimpers and pulses around his fingers, wet and hot and needing. He spreads her thighs and enters her in a slippery gasp.

They move together in the half-light of moon and dark, their eyes wild, their mouths fighting a deadly dance of love and lust and submission and grief. She grips his shoulders and tilts her hips and takes him deeper, moaning to see the fire in his eyes as her cunt ripples like heavy water around his cock, drawing him in and holding him there, her legs wrapping around his broad back. His teeth find her neck and she whines like a wounded animal, her nails dragging down the slope of his shoulders.

“She would have _killed_ you, Ned.” Her voice erupts from her throat in a panicked cry. “She would have taken your heart for the secrets you found.” Tears dapple her cheeks. Her fingers are vices on his back, her eyes shut tight as waves of pleasure flood her womb and surge like fire in her blood. “She would have taken you from me, my love.”

Ned kisses the panic from her face and tips her chin with his hand. Her eyes open on his: a flood of starlit sea pulling at him as they did all those years ago. “I am here.” His voice is the dark smoke of the north and it curls around her heart like fire-glow. She lifts her head and takes his lips, pulling him down with her soft grip in his hair. “I am safe.” He rocks his hips and feels her surge around his cock, her walls a silky warm clamp on him as she comes and cries out against his mouth. “I am yours, Nell Northwood.” She tips back her head, her hair a cloud of ink bursting across the pillows, and he feathers her throat with kisses. “Hearth and home and heart tree, always.” She opens her eyes on his: blue-grey sea drinking in summer storm. “Always, my love… _always_.”

ლ

They wake to the sound of bells knolling across the city. Keep and kingdom hold sway in silence as they clang and crack and shudder out their song. The bellhands pull true and strong; the storm of their labour rocks the walls of the bedchamber, rattles the brass-fitted doors of the Tower of the Hand. Shadows move in the bailey below: figures cloaked and hooded stepping soft as deer a track well-trod by spiders, sneaks and eunuchs, a track that leads through tunnel and dungeon and crypt to a pathway that opens to riverbank and from there boats to the Wall and to the Faith.

Nell curls herself tight against Ned’s hot hard body; his arm is an anchor holding her safe in this world of wildfire and wailing bells. Her hand trembles where it rests on the steady rise and fall of his chest. He takes it and presses her palm to his lips, meets her eyes with a gaze sure and steadfast as it’s ever been. Her heart is heavy, her throat aches with tears, her head runs with thoughts of red-and-gold, of queens made penitents, of children stolen away by ship and sea. Those grey eyes drink hers in and tell her wordlessly that there was no choice in any of it, they tell her that her hands are clean. He runs her palm across his mouth and meets her lips with a half-smile.

The chamber is red-warm with love and light and life.

Outside a lioness dies quiet as a mouse.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Love is a poison_ … lifted from _A Clash of Kings_ Chapter 52: Sansa IV.  
> 2\. _Jaime and I are more than brother and sister_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 45: Eddard XII.  
> 3\. _He dreams an old dream_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 39: Eddard X.  
> 4\. Salt water moves as shadow, dreams of violet eyes and half-torn towers haunt a sleeping wolf, the roar is strangled… but will it pin the claw?


	4. Petals and Pinpricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Sunlight floods full and thick through the latticed windows, limning the red-warm chamber in half a hundred shades of yellow light. Nell stirs in her bed, frowning against the rays of gold. Her hand strays to find the space beside her cool. _Ned_. She blinks at the pillow bare of grey eyes and dark hair and feels slow and sleep-heavy as she fights to gather the threads of thought. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw_. Nell groans and runs a hand over her face; the claw has been pinned, the roar truly strangled.

Days have passed and still her heart is heavy from her shadowy journey in the belly of Baelor’s sept. _Robert Baratheon got half of what he wanted: the golden head of his queen… and three cubs farmed to the Watch and to the Faith_. The keep was sombre the morning that bells knolled loud and true across the city, but in the days since life and laughter have returned to the cloistered pathways and serpentine steps – none louder than the throaty roar of the king. Nell feels a little joy in that. She sighs and sits up against her pillows, her eyes rolling lazily over the sheets of the bed and she gives a scream to see the red-haired ghost at its foot.

“ _Sansa_ ,” she gasps, her heart leaping against her ribs. “Gods be good, sweeting, you gave me such a fright – and what is that on your hands?” Nell’s eyes fly to the crimson-stained linen and she frowns. “Blood?”

Sansa starts forward with a wail, her hands clutching at her belly, tears running full and fat down her pale cheeks. “I tried to wash it, Nell.” Her voice is rich with sobs and fear. “I _really_ tried, Nellie – but it’s soaked in fast and won’t budge.” Her eyes rise as trembling sapphires in the sunlight. “I’m sorry… I’ve made such a mess and it won’t stop.” She bites her lip and her shoulders shake. “It won’t _stop_ , Nell!”

In a flurry of tears and hot looks, Nell finds the truth of Sansa’s sobs. _Her first flowering_. She sits the girl on the bed and fetches an ewer of water to wash away the blood. _My charge with hair of flames and eyes of sapphire becomes a woman grown_. Sansa sits glumly throughout as Nell strips her of the stained linen shift, dresses her in a gown of navy silk and finds woollen rags at the bottom of her clothes chest. Nell sits beside her on the featherbed and puts her arm around Sansa’s trembling shoulders to share some gentle words. Soon she turns from ghost to girl again and leans her head weakly against the soft swell of Nell’s bosom.

“I was so afraid, Nell,” she whispers. “I dreamt that I was surrounded by a sea of people all grabbing at my skirts. There was smoke and blood… so much _blood_.” She shudders in Nell’s arms. “I called out for a true knight to save me but nobody answered and the mob raked at my tummy and spilled my guts.” She glances up to meet her handmaid’s eyes tearfully. “Are there no true knights in this city, Nell?”

Nell smiles down at her. _So sweet, so innocent_. She smooths the hair red as fire back from Sansa’s brow and presses a kiss there. _I would sink any heat that hurt her, for true_. “There are true knights in every city, Sansa Stark,” she says softly. “But for every one true knight, there are half a hundred who are more greedy than gallant.” She shares a conspiratorial smile with Sansa. “It is the way of all men, my heart.” She cups the girl’s cheek. “But have no fear, Sansa Stark, you will find a knight who is as gallant as you are kind and clever and beautiful.” Her heart surges to see the sunlight dapple with the smile on Sansa’s face. “There will be no mobs or blood or blades in the dark for you, dear heart, only life, only love, only light, I swear it.”

ლ

Five sit to break their fast in the small hall this morrow. Sansa is still pale where she carefully cuts an oatcake into quarters, but her eyes are calm and the terror of her dream is gone from her face. Dark-haired Jeyne sits beside her, nibbling daintily on honey-smeared bread. Septa Mordane has eyes of ice set on the opposite side of the trestle table and Nell cannot help but smirk. Arya squats on the ashwood bench in dirty roughspun, hair a nest of knots and brambles, going at her plate of blood sausage and black bread as though it were a mortal foe. _She stabs and cuts like it is Needle in her hand and not an eating-knife_. Septa Mordane wears a pinched face and Nell feels her smirk rapidly growing to a laugh; Arya hears the sound low in Nell’s throat and glances up from beneath her wild dark hair.

“What?” she asks, her mouth full.

“ _Arya Stark_ ,” charges the septa, eyes of ice turning hot as flames. “I have taught you better than to sit and shout with your mouth full of food.” Two spots of colour pepper her cheeks. “I must needs have words with your lord father… this dancing master has sent you wild as a wolf pup.” She squints at her beneath her gable hood. “Look at you – tangled hair, cheeks covered in dirt, and bruises purpling your shins!”

“Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson,” says Arya calmly, swallowing her bread. “And every lesson makes you better.” She drags a hand through her unruly mane and shrugs under the wilting gaze of Septa Mordane. “Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water.” She stabs her knife into a piece of blood sausage with a rueful smile. “I’m getting faster and lighter – Nell will tell you, won’t you, Nell?”

“A handmaid’s words do not concern me this morrow,” says Septa Mordane quick and sharp as a stab. _Nor do they ever_ , thinks Nell drolly as she watches the septa draw out a rolled paper from her pocket. “Your lady mother’s do, however.” She unrolls the letter bearing the red-and-blue wax of House Tully. “She writes to wish you both well and to remind you of your duties on the Maiden’s special day.”

Sansa simpers and smiles but Arya scowls. “Father never said I had to go to the stupid sept on Maiden’s Day,” she glowers. “That’s for pretty girls in dresses – not water dancers.”

“It is a day for noble maidens to show their piety and grace,” snaps the septa, putting down the letter. “Come the morrow, you _will_ be scrubbed and plaited and on the steps of Baelor’s Great Sept in a gown of white.” She taps the table with her fingers. “You _will_ walk meek as a lamb beside your sister and sing the songs and light the candles – it is your lady mother’s dearest wish and my command.”

Arya makes a sour face but keeps silent. Nell meets those grey eyes and rolls her own. The wolf-girl laughs then and turns back to stabbing at her food.

ლ

The sun is low in the sky as Ned crosses the middle bailey. His shoulders ache from sitting the small council half the day; his head pulses from the storm of sounds that took up the other half. _Give me the sharp song of swordplay over the twittering of a lady’s high tea_ , he thinks with a faint smile. _Give me a wailing babe over the murmur of polite conversation_. He rolls his shoulders and quickens his pace, eager to put some distance between the duties that have taken up his day and the delicate hands that wait to smooth the strains away. Thinking of Nell forces thoughts of knolling bells and Silent Sisters to swirl with the smoke of pain in his head. _The lioness is dead, the cubs are safely scattered by ship and sea, yet the pride remains prowling_ … He glances up at the sky, worries his lip in the fading light, and presses on past the sept: a wolf following the scent of his ward.

Dusk finds Nell in the godswood, her back to the great heart tree of oak, her skirts of blue silk lost amongst the russet-green leaves. Ned watches her as he makes a quiet approach through the twists between elm and alder and black cottonwood, his feet muffled by leaf mould. He pauses a little way from her and leans against a tree. _She is lovely_ , he thinks, _as lovely as all the roses in Highgarden – with a scent twice as heady_. The fading sunlight sets her in flame and shadow, chasing shapes and spirals across her velvet cheek. She is busy with something; he can see her hands reaching and twisting, her lashes a storm of black on her cheeks as her eyes look down at the forest floor. Her hair is pinned up today. Ned’s eyes light on her smooth throat and bare shoulders; he moves off silent as a wolf from his lonely tree trunk and steals up behind her.

She gives a cry as he crouches down sudden as a storm behind her and circles her in his arms. Her nails find his wrists and he gives a grunt, half-laughter, half-indignation. She turns in his arms and scowls to see him, her fine black brows flickering as reluctant laughter twists from her mouth. He leans down and robs the giggle from her lips, opening her mouth on his and feeling drunk on her taste and scent.

“Hello, my love,” he murmurs, his voice dark and smoky.

“You are a bad man, Eddard Stark,” breathes Nell in that velvet voice she uses just for him. “ _Still_ creeping up on young ladies as a wolf would a lamb.” She rubs her nose against his and takes his lips with hers again. “You ought be ashamed.”

“Mmm,” hums Ned, his breath warm on her cheek. “A thousand pardons, my lady.” He slips a curl of dark hair back behind her ear and trails his fingers down her throat; his eyes glimmer to see how she arches into his touch. “I have been all day buried in roses and thorns.” He sits beside her. “I wanted some quiet amongst the leaves.”

“The _Queen_ of Thorns?” asks Nell, her fingers rising to stroke the golden chain of clasped hands set around his neck. “Did you find any petals amongst the pinpricks?”

Ned smiles at that and lifts a hand to cover her own; his fingers weave through hers and his thumb smooths the pearl of her nails. “I did,” he says with a sigh. “I found a maid of six-and-ten with a smile like sunshine and the eyes of a doe… she will be queen before the year is out.” He meets Nell’s eyes and lifts her hand to his lips. “I found another, too.”

Nell smiles at him and runs her thumb over his down-turned lips, her fingers whispering across the wild black beard. “One for yourself, my lord?”

He laughs at that and pulls her roughly onto his lap, leaning back against the bark of the heart tree and circling her waist in his great hands. He closes his eyes to feel her little hands framing his face, her fingers gliding his hair back from his brow; he looks at her now and tilts his head for a kiss. She lowers her face, the curls escaped from their pins tickling his cheeks in twists of black. Their lips meet gently: a glance of tongue and teeth and taste. She draws back and he feels her ribs shudder against his palms.

“Never,” he murmurs, landing a kiss to her jaw. “Hearth and home and heart tree – I need no-one else, my love.”

Nell gives a little sigh at that and it rips through him like thunder. They are hungry now. He sees the flames in her eyes and feels his throat constrict with heat. Her fingers dig into the plump muscles of his shoulders as he hefts up her skirts and frees himself from his laces. He runs a hand between her legs and finds her wet and hot and bare. He groans and lifts her hips as she sinks down onto his cock. She tips back her head as he presses deep inside her and he marks her throat with his teeth to hear her whimper echo with the breeze in the godswood. They move slow and heavy as the fading sunlight dappling the russet-green leaves around them; her hips are a soft easy current, rolling and rocking him. Her cunt ripples and clenches around his cock and she pulls the ribbons of her bodice free and stares down at him with fire in her eyes. He takes her lips with his for a swift savage kiss as he fights the shift from her breasts and rolls her nipples beneath his palms.

“My love,” she whimpers, arching her back and pushing into his hands. He lands kisses on her throat, his tongue a trail of fire as he dips his head to her breast. His mouth closes on her nipple and she moans to feel him suck and pull. Her hands knot into his hair after a moment and tug his face up to level with hers. “Oh, Ned.”

“Mmm,” breathes Ned, his hand catching at the black hair piled atop her head and holding her firm. “I loved that the first time I heard it.” He grinds his hips against hers and groans to see her tongue run over her lip in hunger. “I loved it then and I love it still.”

“Love what?” hums Nell, gripping hard at his neck and shoulders as she rocks on him, deep and slow and long, her thighs taut as drumskins against his legs. He trails a hand up beneath her skirts now and circles her with his thumb. Her fine black brows knot together, her mouth an open cry of agony and heat and pleasure. He smiles at her, his eyes glinting triumphantly.

“My name on your tongue,” he whispers, tightening his grip on her hair and swallowing her kiss. “Say it again, Nell.” He bites her lip and fights thoughts of roses and thorns and betrothals from his mind. “Say it again, my love.” _Tell me you need me as I need you Nell_ , he thinks, _a need as dark and fierce and final as death, gods be true, gods be good, gods be damned_ … “Say it, please.”

She rocks him slow still, her hands running up from his shoulders, her fingers whispering across his beard and stroking his chin as she drinks deep his kiss. “Ned,” she murmurs into the cave of his mouth, her skin pulsing as she feels darts of pleasure leave trails of fire and ice in her belly. “Sweet Ned.” Her whimper echoes into his mouth as she comes; she grips the panic from him with her mouth and cunt, drawing him home through storm and smoke and pinpricks. “I need you now and always.”

Ned’s groan is warm and low as he clutches her hips and bucks against her. They sag together in the fading sunlight, breathing heavily against the great heart tree of oak, blinking at each other as gradually the world returns and the haze of desire lifts from them as smoke to the sky. He smiles at her as she rests her forehead against his own and runs her thumbs along his cheekbones. His hands rise from her hips to circle her waist, his fingers tracing lazy shapes on her skin. She twists her brow against his and smiles that soft little smile he loves so much.

“Gods, Ned,” she murmurs with laughter in her eyes. “Are we green lovers in springtime again?”

He chuckles and they draw back and look around at themselves, half-clothed and hair mussed, lips dark and curls slipping from pins, leaves stuck to silk and wool and stockings. He plucks a skein of russet-green from her hair and they laugh together. Sudden as a storm, her laughter stops and she wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him flush against her. He buries his face in her smooth dark hair and breathes deep the scent of her: that heady perfume of scented oil, flowers and sweetness that is Nell’s and Nell’s alone.

“Flesh of my flesh,” she whispers against his throat. “Blood of my blood.” He feels her lips press a gentle kiss to his skin. “Bone of my bone.” She draws back and looks deep into his eyes. “I thank the gods that you are safe, Eddard Stark, that you are here… that you are _mine_.” She kisses him, her lips a song on his, soft and sad and sweet.

“Safe because of you, Nell Northwood,” murmurs Ned, cradling her chin in his hand as he rubs his nose gently against hers. “All because of you, my love.” His fingers whisper across her cheek; his eyes darken. “The gods know you fought daggers in the dark to make it so.”

“As I will for now and ever more, Ned,” she says, meeting his eyes as she pulls the ribbons back through her bodice. “I am a handmaid of the salt winds, sworn to serve House Stark with the grace and courage the gods see fit to give me.”

“My lady speaks true,” whispers Ned, his eyes smiling on hers as they re-lace silk and wool and stockings against the chill of the fading sun. She settles her cheek to his chest as he leans back against the heart tree of oak; he weaves his fingers through hers and smooths the pearl of her nails with his thumb. “These hands were busy at work before I made you start and scream… what were you doing?”

Nell sighs and rubs her cheek against the fur-trim of his cloak as she is like to do. “Sansa and Jeyne have been weaving crowns of flowers half the day,” she says softly. “Pretty petals of blue and gold and peach to set alongside their white gowns for Maiden’s Day.” She searches at the heart tree’s base and plucks a crown of wildflowers from amongst the leaves. “I thought to make one for Arya, too.”

Ned’s eyes fall on it with an ache in his heart: it is pearl and crimson and indigo. He gathers Nell closer to his chest and breathes the scent of her hair. Joy rises as bittersweet as tears in his throat and he knows with love fierce and thick as fire in his heart how good a woman the one he holds in his arms is. _She never asked for this_ , he thinks, _she never asked for any of it… yet she follows me as fierce and true now as she did from her home of black rock and storm nine years past_. He presses a kiss to her brow.

“I know she rages like a bull calf about being made to dress in white and go with her sister to the Great Sept on Maiden’s Day,” says Nell earnestly. “But both her lady mother and her septa demand it.” She strokes the twists of the wildflowers with her thumb. “At least she won’t have to go with a garland of pink and plum on her head… she’d hate that.” He hears the smile in her voice and smiles too. “She’ll go instead with a crown of dragon’s breath and bellflowers and meadowsweets in her hair.” She lifts her head and looks up at him and his heart breaks with love at the contentment in her gaze. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’ll like it well enough,” says Ned, tasting her smile with his lips. Her small hands rise to cup his skull and he feels warm and good in her touch. He draws back from her kiss and looks at her with a frown, his thumb smoothing still the pearl of her nails. “Four more crowns of flowers you’ll have to weave once these have wilted, my love.”

Nell meets his gaze with a frown of her own. “My lord?”

“Three for the girls and one for you in a moon’s turn,” he says softly. “Crowns of primrose and sand poppy and iris weaved to one.”

“Green and gold and grey,” says Nell gently, understanding in an instant. “Wolf and rose woven to one.”

Ned gives a grim little smile and lifts her hand to his lips. “I told you I found another amongst the petals and pinpricks of Olenna Tyrell’s high tea, my love.” He kisses her palm and looks at her with half a hundred things lighting his deep grey eyes: love and angst and confusion. “As doe-eyed as his sister despite the thorn in his side.”

“Sansa will wed Willas Tyrell with a crown of green and gold and grey in her hair,” says Nell softly. “Is that the truth of it, Ned?”

“Aye, that’s the truth of it, Nell,” murmurs Ned, holding her hand to his mouth. “In a moon’s turn my little girl will become a lady.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The opening passage is my attempt to rewrite a scene that broke my heart in _A Clash of Kings_ (Chapter 52: Sansa IV) when I first read it many years ago. This fic provided a happy chance to reimagine Sansa’s first _flowering_ as something other than the swirl of pain and fear it was in-canon.  
> 2\. _Syrio says that every lesson_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 30: Eddard VII.  
> 3\. A flurry of flowers: little girl turned lady, wolf betrothed to rose… the wheel keeps turning, wolf and ward tumble with it…


	5. Wildflowers

Robert Baratheon sits as a giant at the head of the ebony table, his storm-blue eyes flickering busily between the maps and scrolls laid before him. A chill wind creeps in through a crack in the leaded glass of the tall windows; the rolls of parchment and paper crease and flutter. Ned runs a hand over his wild beard and closes his eyes a moment. A raven flew from the riverlands yester-eve and found perch in the Red Keep’s rookery. _Dark wings, dark words_. His eyes blink open to fall upon the scrap of paper it bore; the red-and-blue of House Tully bleeds with the wax of his own grey-and-white seal. _Beric Dondarrion fell beneath the Mountain at Mummer’s Ford and now hound and lion prowl the three-forked Trident_. Tywin Lannister still sits the stone tower of Casterly Rock, but his son trails a wave of red-and-gold across the riverlands. Ned grinds his teeth.

“Jaime Lannister grows bold,” says Ser Barristan Selmy with contempt. “He makes move toward Pinkmaiden and High Heart even as his brother Tyrion emerges unhurt from the Eyrie with a ragged score of clansmen at his heels.” He shakes his head. “The riverlands are a sea of smoke and slaughtered smallfolk.”

“He goes too far,” says Robert, his face reddening above his great black beard. “He flees as fugitive from the city and now sets a sweep of fire from the Golden Tooth to the Tumblestone.” His fingers trace the worn lines of the map spread before him. “I have a mind to take my warhammer to his chest and let his blood join that of Rhaegar’s in the ruby ford…” His hand clenches. “But I would rather have his head to mount the empty spike on Traitor’s Walk.”

Ned pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. _Ruby raindrops and a storm of smoke_. He remembers the fight that raged on the Trident even now. He feels the flow of water run thick as blood around his ankles, the ache in his back from the weight of his armour, the heaviness of Ice as he bandied and parried and dipped. He thinks of Robb circling the same riverbanks amongst the smoke and soot of Jaime Lannister’s pillaging and feels fear and anger coil thick as fire in his throat. _That hand of gold and flame fell once on a night of rain and riot_. He grinds his teeth to think of Nell falling from her horse and the bruise that dappled her cheek for weeks afterward. _I will not let it fall again_. He feels eyes on him and looks up to see Varys watching him intently.

“Tywin Lannister must be summoned to court,” says Ned, his voice as icy as his eyes. “One word from him would halt the burning of the riverlands, another word would assure his fealty to you, Robert.” They are all watching him now. “He is a thousand times deadlier left to dwell on his crag of rock and coin than he will be making move to bend the knee here in King’s Landing.”

“And if he refuses?” asks Varys, his voice as soft as his robes of lilac silk. “Lord Tywin sits amongst a host of some twenty thousand men.” His white fingers dabble at his sleeves. “His lovely daughter is attended to by the Silent Sisters and his two sons are hale and hearty wreaking havoc with hosts of their own whilst his grandchildren are shipped to the Wall and to the Faith.” His bright eyes glimmer. “What is to stop him declaring war instead of fealty to our good King Robert?”

“What remains of the pride for the lion to fight for?” objects Selmy, frowning. “House Lannister is dishonoured and desecrated by the deeds of its daughter. Lord Tywin would be a madman to turn loose against the crown… what hope has he of ever defending his name again? The dark whispers spread like wildflowers across the Seven Kingdoms already.”

“Still, Lord Varys speaks true,” says Renly Baratheon from his cushioned chair. “The Old Lion commands twenty thousand men, the Kingslayer near the same.” His blue eyes sparkle in the light reflected from his diamond-and-emerald brooch. “The crownlands can muster at most fifteen thousand whilst Robb Stark sits a host at Riverrun of almost the same size.” He twists a ring of gold and gemstones around his thumb. “We would be under-matched if it came to war.”

“It won’t come to war,” charges Ned coolly. “Tywin Lannister is too shrewd a man to risk outright rebellion to the crown.” He surveys the small council with a grim frown. “Mayhap if his cause was just… but he would be fighting to defend the honour of a pair of siblings turned lovers. Think on that for a moment, my lords.” He watches them nod and raise their brows. “Tywin Lannister will not fight – he will be summoned to court to swear fealty to his king and ordered to send for his sons, one to swear the same, the other to stand trial before a high court as his sister did.” He works his jaw beneath his beard. “My son Robb holds Riverrun with my bannermen at his back and he fights well and brave to reclaim the lands watered by the Trident.” He feels a pulse of pride for his red-haired boy as he speaks. “But Lord Renly is right – in numbers we are few whilst they are great.”

“A remedy to this?” asks Robert, leaning back in his chair and staring at his small council with storm-blue eyes. “What must needs be done to ensure the hounds are kept to the Old Lion’s heel?”

“A wedding, my king,” says Varys softly. “A maid of sixteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable.” He gives a smile. “With the strength of Highgarden at her back.”

ლ

Chill sunlight bathes the seven crystal towers in rays of gold and honey; rainbows dapple the walls as bells peal across the city. The plaza of the Great Sept is a sea of white marble and swirling silk; maidens move in step with septas and their soft chanting fills the air alongside the bells. There are dozens of them all garbed in white gowns, some with shawls of Myrish lace drawn up over their heads, some with pearl-capped ribbons tying off dark hair, others with elaborate plaits and ivory pins. Nell watches them from beneath the shade of the Bell Tower, slunk back into the shadows of one of its plinths, her blue-grey silk bleeding dark against the white stone.

She circles the silver wolf’s head on its chain about her neck and her eyes light on three crowns of flowers moving amongst the sea of silk and song. Her heart swells against her ribs to see them plaited and preened even as her fingers ache from all the scrubbing of skin and tying of ribbons and laces. _A day for pretty girls in dresses – not water dancers_. Arya scowled and snapped wild as a wolf when Nell pulled her from the bed but her eyes glowed grey and good to see the crown of dragon’s breath and bellflowers and meadowsweets. _Flowers of autumn for winter’s daughter_.

In the chill sunshine dappling the sept, the wildflowers glow bright and beautiful on Arya’s sleek dark head and her cheeks are clean of dirt and dried blood above her gown of white wool. _Catelyn Stark would be proud to look at her_. Petals of blue and gold and peach twist atop Sansa’s copper curls and Jeyne walks beside her with a garland of the same dayflowers and bluebells framing her long brown hair. _Four more to weave once these have wilted_ … Nell looks at the three girls in their white gowns and crowns of wildflowers and wants to clutch them tight and sail them forth all at once. But she settles against the shadow of her plinth and watches the sea surge and sing.

“You stand with those of us that are forbidden entry to the sept this day of innocence and grace,” comes a sharp little voice at her shoulder. “Tell me, Lady Northwood, are you mother, whore, or widow?”

Nell turns to find a wizened old woman with white hair and spotted hands. She wears a gown of green-and-gold silk, cut high to brush her chin; a golden brooch in the shape of a furling rose fastens the loose silk gathered at her throat. Her eyes are sharp above her sunken cheekbones and flash gold and hazel in the shaded light. The little old lady proffers a hand; Nell takes it and dips her lips to a thick gold-and-emerald ring circling one of the gnarled old fingers.

“Lady Olenna,” says Nell, her voice soft and demure as her downcast eyes. “Your granddaughter looks a feast of spring this morrow.”

The Queen of Thorns gives a _humph_ at that, her toothless mouth puckering to form the sound. Her sharp brown eyes fly from Nell to the sea of swirling silk crossing the marble plaza. Margaery Tyrell walks as meek as a lamb in her drab gown of white velvet; her head is bare and her soft brown curls sway lazily around her tiny waist. _A maid of six-and-ten with a smile like sunshine and the eyes of a doe_. The girl moves up to step beside Sansa. They tread together as prettily as dancers, skirts sweeping behind, the sun catching on curls of russet and copper.

“A feast of spring,” says Olenna, turning to stare at Nell once again. “Whilst a repast of winter steps beside.” Her brown eyes glint. “A formidable sight when seen side-by-side, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Northwood?”

Nell thinks of Ned’s words in the godswood and nods. “On this morrow or any other, Lady Olenna.”

“Wolf and rose are in agreement then,” says Olenna, lifting a brow and drawing closer on shuffling feet. “Now which are you, Lady Northwood – mother, whore, or widow?”

“Isn’t each the same as the other, Lady Olenna?” replies Nell, her eyes lighting on the sharp brown stare. “Each spreads her legs and takes her lover’s seed, each nurses his hurts, darns his clothes, dampens his fevered brow… each pays the other’s price for a man’s love.” She dips her head and is glad to see the spark of amusement flicker in those brown eyes. “Be he king or lord or fool.”

Olenna gives a softer _humph_ and draws closer still; her soft spotted hand rests on Nell’s sleeve and presses gently. “All men are fools, if truth be told,” she says. “But the ones in motley are oft more amusing than the ones with crowns.”

“What if the ones with crowns are the same as the ones in motley, my lady?”

Their eyes meet in a flash of laughter.

“Oh, to be sure, Lady Northwood, each is the same as the other,” says Olenna. “King and lord and fool ought all wear the same chequered garb… that way many a pretty young maid would be saved from hurt and heartbreak.”

Nell smiles a little at that and looks to where Sansa and Margaery disappear in a blaze of white and copper and russet. Crowns of wildflowers follow as Arya and Jeyne slip past the marble pulpit and enter the Great Sept. The soft chant of maiden and septa alike rises and lilts and gradually fades as the great brass doors close behind them. The plaza seems bereft without them; sunlight gleams full and thick on blinding white marble. Olenna’s fingers grip at Nell’s sleeve.

“Lord Stark came to me for high tea and lemon cake yesterday,” says Olenna, her voice cool. “He drank little and ate nothing… but he found what he was looking for, true enough.”

Their eyes meet in the shade of the Bell Tower.

_A maid of six-and-ten with a smile like sunshine and the eyes of a doe_ …

Nell dips her head. “A crown of roses will do well on that throne of thorns.”

“Clever, aren’t you?” says Olenna, her eyes narrowing as her toothless mouth lifts in a smile. “I’ve been hearing whispers of you since you took ship to King’s Landing all those moons ago.” She taps her fingers and hums beneath her breath. “Whispers of siren’s spells and words of silver song breaking the lion’s gilded grip on good King Robert… I told you, men are fools.” Olenna gives a soft chuckle. “You’re clever is all. Men see that and call it sorcery.”

“I am only a handmaid of the salt winds, my lady,” says Nell, cool and cautious. “Sworn to serve House Stark with the grace and courage the gods see fit to give me.”

“And you serve them well, Lady Northwood,” says Olenna, nodding. “As I am sure you will serve my granddaughter once she drapes that throne of iron in green-and-gold.” Her fingers grip a little tighter on Nell’s sleeve now. “I have seen you beside both your lord and your king. An old woman knows the difference between a look and a _look_.” Her brows rise up, white feathers thin as thorns. “Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon _look_ at you, girl, and they _see_ you.” She smiles again, her fingers loosening. “Make it so for my Margaery as well, Lady Northwood. She will be a good and graceful queen – but first the king must needs _want_ her to be all that and more.” Her sharp brown eyes turn serious. “Do you understand?”

Nell nods. “The king will look, Lady Olenna,” she promises. “And the king will see.” Her own eyes sharpen now. “But first tell me, and tell me true, what sort of man makes to take my lady Sansa’s hand?”

Olenna meets her eyes and the smile is soft and warm on that toothless mouth. “My grandson Willas is a bit old for her, to be sure, but he is a dear boy for all that.” Her voice is warmer than ever. “Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides.”

“I am no noble’s mother nor lord’s widow, as well you know, Lady Olenna,” says Nell softly. “I care nothing for the titles and lands such weddings bring.” She feels the silver bite of the wolf’s head cool on her throat and thinks of the warrior’s hands that placed it there nine years past. “I care for the girl’s good heart.”

Sharp brown eyes soften now and the Queen of Thorns hums a little beneath her breath. Her fingers move from Nell’s sleeve to pat at her hand. “Margaery always says that Willas has a bad leg but a good heart,” she murmurs. “He is gentle and pious and true.” She releases Nell’s hand with a final squeeze. “He will be a good husband to your girl of tender heart, he will grow to love her fiercely, he will honour her and protect her.” Her eyes flash a little in the sunlight but her smile stays soft as she shuffles a step away. “He will be to Sansa Stark all her lord father is to you, Lady Northwood.”

ლ

A feast is thrown in the formal gardens of Baelor’s sept to mark the end to Maiden’s Day. Pavilions of silk are hefted and strung amongst the beds of yellow poppies, lavender, purple perennials and ghost roses that curve the fountains and hedges and pallid walls of white stone. Braziers are lit to keep off the chill of the night; stars stretch overhead in the black sky like a thousand lamplights flickering white and silver. They feast on charred aurochs and bowls of sweetgrass and fresh-baked bread. Wine flows thick and free as the merry music of pipe and drum that echoes up toward the stars. Soon, the king calls for the handmaid and her harp. Nell sits before one of the braziers at the pavilion’s mouth and sings a pretty song or two, soft words of sea and ship and starlight flowing from her lips, sweet and sorrowful, lifting and lilting across the dark sky. There is a scattering of cheers and claps before Robert calls her over.

He sits straight and proud in his high-backed chair upon the dais. _Stag grows stronger day by day_. She spoke true to Cersei that night in the shadows of Baelor’s sept: Robert is a king again. His fat is run back to muscle, his chest is broad as a warrior’s and his stormy blue eyes are clear of wine and weariness. He waves her to the seat at his right and she dips her head and sinks where Ned is like to sit, her skirts of blue-grey silk spilling like heavy water to the ground. They talk a while, king and handmaid, of troubles and triumphs and tragedies. She laughs at a jest he makes about a lord stumbling in his cups across the firelit gardens and suddenly the king goes quiet and stares at her with damp gaze.

“You look like her in some lights, you know,” says Robert, his voice husky with old hurts. He searches Nell’s puzzled face with eyes darkened by remembered griefs. “A wild beauty… just as she was.”

“Who, my king?” asks Nell, narrowing her eyes in question.

“Like my one love,” murmurs Robert. “It’s your hair, I think. Like black silk… like the night’s sky over Winterfell: deep and dark and endless.” He sighs and turns a skein of her hair gently in his fingers. “She was so unlike the southron women I’ve charmed and bedded over the years. She was ice and snow and hard frost. Stubborn as a mule, wild as a wolf, soft as the down of a little bird.” His eyes are glittering now. “She hunted with horse and hawk. She looked at me with fire in her eyes and pride in her heart.” He bites his lip and watches Nell’s hair fall like black water through his fingers. “How different life would have been had Lyanna lived. How different I would have been, Nell Northwood.”

_Beautiful, and wilful, and dead before her time_... Ned has oft spoken of his beloved sister, of the dreams of violet storm that haunt him still; his words sound soft as breath in her head now as she watches the king speak. Robert’s lips are bowed with sadness below the heavy black beard. He looks a child again in this moment with his downcast eyes and trembling mouth. Nell looks from him to the firelit glow of the silk pavilion. It is a pulse of lords and ladies in a hundred shades of velvet blush and sunset skirts; they move like dancers from trestle table to archway, laughing and jesting between plinth and pillar, bowing and smiling, weaving and dipping as readily as dripping candlewax. Amongst it all, she spies the green-and-gold of House Tyrell as they circle their brightest flower.

Margaery is a feast for eyes this night, her skin cream and blush and warmth, her soft brown curls tumbling about her tiny waist. Gone is her drab gown of white velvet; she wears green silk that wraps tight as vines around her slender body. _A maid of six-and-ten with a smile like sunshine and the eyes of a doe_ … Nell closes her eyes to whispered words in the godswood and then looks back to the blush of creamy skin and green silk and thinks of the red-haired whore clutching her babe in Chataya’s brothel. _Black-haired and full of fire_. The girl was bare four-and-ten when Robert gave her seed that grew to a royal bastard. _Four-and-ten and swept already into a sea of royal salt and storm_ … Sansa and Jeyne dip curtsies as Margaery sweeps toward them; the three girls giggle and clap to the merry music and Nell feels her heart grow heavy in her chest.

“You loved Lyanna deeply, you love her memory still, I do not doubt it for a moment, my king,” says Nell, her voice soft and cool. “And I know more than most what it is to love a Stark.” He smiles to hear that. “But you are flesh-and-blood, Robert. No amount of yearning will bring ash and bone back to life… would that it could.” She watches as he turns her hair in his fingers again. “Winter is coming, my king, and we must needs look to the green-and-gold of spring.”

“How can I, Nell Northwood?” asks Robert, his eyes as stricken as his voice. “How can I be wed to a rose when all I have ever wanted is a wolf by my side?” He frowns and clenches his hand to a fist; the black silk of her hair slips free. “Damn the day the gods gave me a crown instead of the girl I prayed them for.”

Nell touches his sleeve gently, feels the soft silk and iron strength tremble beneath her fingers. _A stag, a bull, a fool… but a good man, true enough_. He meets her eyes, stormy blue and uncertain, and sighs. He follows where she glances to the moonlit turrets of the Red Keep glowering down from the peak of Aegon’s Hill: the place that shelters the twisted spectre of swords and steps looming dark as pitch in the throne room.

“A crown of roses will sit well enough on that throne of thorns, my king,” she says softly. “She will twine and trail it with blossom. She will soften it as lioness never did. She will sit it as wolf never could.” She taps his sleeve and gives him a sad little smile. “She will be a good and gracious queen.”

“I will never love her, Nell,” he says mournfully, looking to the dark sky above them as if the ebony curls of his lost love will tumble down to tickle his cheeks. “I will never love her like I loved Lyanna.”

“There is time enough for that, Robert,” says Nell, thinking of starlit eyes and a lord of white and grey. “There is time enough for love, my king.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _A maid of fourteen, sweet_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 32: Arya III.  
> 2\. _All men are fools_ … lifted from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 6: Sansa I.  
> 3\. _My grandson Willas_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 6: Sansa I.  
> 4\. _Willas has a bad leg_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 6: Sansa I.  
> 5\. _Beautiful, and wilful, and dead before her time_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 22: Arya II.  
> 6\. A crown of roses and a queen of thorns: stag and wolf and rose swirl with salt water, whilst the memory of a lost love frames all…


	6. Carnival of Souls

A sennight after the banquet at Baelor’s sept, another feast is thrown. In place of a handful of silk pavilions, half a hundred are strung up alongside the frantic rush of the Blackwater. They glow gold and white as a sea of lords and ladies make their way through the great stone ballasts of the King’s Gate. It is early evening; the sky is pink and purple as an old bruise where it rests atop the pale crimson stones of the Red Keep. The murmur of the river is matched by a storm of sounds: footsteps, wagon-wheels, clapping, shouting, cheering. A roar cuts them all to quiet and then applause explodes like wildfire. Sansa grips Nell’s arm and gives a girlish squeak of excitement.

Limned by the pink sky, Robert Baratheon glows like a god on the back of a stallion black as pitch. His shoulders fill the cobbled street as he dips below the archway of the King’s Gate and emerges to follow the pathway cutting through the silk pavilions. He wears the black-and-gold of his house; thick velvet cut high to his throat and studded with gemstones that glitter in the shape of a stag on his breast. He sits his stallion with the ease of a warrior, his storm-blue eyes fixed on the river as he rides through crowds of clapping lords and ladies. Beside him, barded in green and gold, a white palfrey steps prettily as a dancer. Atop it sits Margaery Tyrell, dainty and pretty in a damask gown of sea-green and ermine. A circlet of gold rests amongst the brown curls swaying lazily around her waist; it catches the fading sunlight and flashes with the same fire that dances in her eyes.

“It is like the songs,” says Sansa, breathy and beaming.

Stag and rose draw to a halt amongst the swell of silk pavilions and flickering braziers. The king dismounts and steps up to the side of the white palfrey. His betrothed smiles prettily down at him as he closes his great hands around the span of her tiny waist and lifts her down from her saddle of green-and-gold. They stand before the sea of lords and ladies, hand in hand. Robert Baratheon raises the lithe hand of Margaery Tyrell and presses her fingers to his lips; the sound of applause sweeps strong as the Blackwater’s murmur. They turn as one and step beneath the fluttering standards of stag and rose; Sansa’s fingers close at once on Nell’s wrist as she drags her in to dance.

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Ned sits to the right of his king at the high table of the feast. Trestle tables run the length of the silk pavilion that stretches before him: planks of ash and oak buried beneath platters of roast boar, bowls of pumpkin and onion, heels of fresh-baked bread, and plates of pastries filled with cherries and figs from the Reach. Wine and ale flows thick and free; boisterous shouts and raucous laughs fill the pavilion as they are like to fill any feast-hall. Merry music of pipe and drum mixes and bleeds with wine-soaked chatter and chuckle. Ned closes his eyes and picks out the murmur of the Blackwater amongst the storm of sound.

“How soon to get a trueborn son on her, I wonder?” comes Robert’s voice at his side. “Soon be no more bastards for you and me, old friend.”

Ned opens his eyes and meets the storm-blue stare of his king. _No more bastards_ … He thinks of Jon Snow then, his black-haired boy, and love bleeds with grief in his bones. He wonders how he fares beyond the icy chasm of the Wall. _Might be he won’t need to ever go beyond it_ , he thinks, _might be he’ll stay safe and sound sheltered behind it_. He chides himself for the selfishness of his thoughts as he ponders it. Jon Snow is a man grown, fierce and solemn and true, well able to heft a sword and loose an arrow… but he is still Ned’s black-haired boy. _He always will be_. He thinks of another just as fierce with hair just as black crowned with a wreath of winter roses. _Promise me, Ned_. He shakes the words from his head in a panic.

“You are too hard on yourself, Ned,” says Robert, seeing his shaking head for answer. “You always were.” He lays a heavy hand on Ned’s shoulder and sighs. “Damn it, no woman wants Baelor the Blessed in her bed.” His eyes stray to where the circlet of gold catches the torchlight atop the head of his betrothed. “Though the gods know, I will try to be more Baelor than Aerys this time round.” He runs a hand over the great black beard and smiles wanly beneath his fingers. “The realm knows what a wretched king I’ve been till now. Bad as Aerys in throne as well as bed, gods spare me.”

“No,” says Ned, catching a smile of his own. “Not as bad as Aerys, Your Grace… not near so bad as Aerys.”

They stare at each other a time: king and hand, brother to brother.

“Let me tell you a secret, Ned,” says Robert after a moment. “More than once, I dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for… _the sellsword king_ , how the singers would’ve loved me.” Torchlight glimmers in his storm-blue eyes. “Do you know what always stopped me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear.” Grief clashes with anger in his gaze. “Half my life, I’ve wondered how I could have made a son like that, only now to find he was no son of mine at all.” He rolls his great shoulders and sighs. “Ah, but the lions have been chased from my keep thanks to you and your handmaid, Ned Stark. I’m still young, I have you beside me, and a rose to sit my throne of thorns… things will be different.” He claps Ned on the shoulder and grins. “We’ll make this a reign to sing of – and damn the Lannisters to seven hells.”

They clank their cups together at that; Ned feels small joy warm his heart faint as an ember. A raven found perch in the Red Keep’s rookery a fortnight past: it was white as snow bearing the seal of the Citadel. _Autumn is here_ , thinks Ned warily, _winter is coming_. A black-feathered cousin joined it yester-eve, its letter sealed by golden wax. Tywin Lannister rides forth at last from his tower of rock and coin to answer his king’s summons. Near three hundred leagues as the crow flies from Casterly Rock to King’s Landing; the Old Lion makes dogged progress along the Goldroad even now. _Soon enough a lion will stride once more into the throne room_. Ned runs a hand over his beard. _But not yet… not yet_.

Ned’s eyes travel the torchlit glow of the pavilion. Chairs have been stacked and platters moved to make space for dancing. Pipe whistles and drum booms; half a hundred lords and ladies start a merry country jig. He spots Margaery Tyrell spinning with her brother Loras in a swirl of lazy brown curls and sea-green silk. A host of little lords follow their stead; Ned picks out sigils of boar and owl and ram and adder shining in bright thread across doublets and tunics. He spies Jeyne Poole in her gown of cobalt velvet and mislikes the way Ser Robar Royce stares at her pretty white throat as they step and spin. Ser Andar Royce turns beside his brother with Sansa’s hand held loosely in his own. _My little girl_ , thinks Ned, _soon to be a lady_. He tries to picture her in green-and-gold with a furling rose in place of running direwolf at her shoulder; he tries to be as joyful as Catelyn writes to be over the betrothal of their daughter to Willas Tyrell. _A moon’s turn and they’ll be here… Cat and Willas, both_.

“Seems like that young storm lord is out to play your Nell as well as she plays her harp,” says Robert, snatching Ned from his reveries. “Lord of Nightsong… from the look on her face, Bryce Caron sounds more crow than nightingale.”

Ned follows the king’s eyes to the centre of the dancing folk. Nell is radiant in her gown of silver-smoke silk, her dark hair piled and pinned to bare her shoulders; her face is thunder. Ned smiles. She holds the hand of a lord in yellow silk with a flock of nightingales worked in black thread across his breast. Bryce Caron dips his head and bows respectfully enough, but his hand wanders beyond her waist more than once. Ned can feel the fire in Nell’s glare from here as she swats at the offending hand. _The Lord of Nightsong is lucky she doesn’t break his fingers… it has oft been her punishment for wandering hands at feast-days and harvest time_. He remembers with a smirk the Greatjon’s yell when she snapped his fingers back for clawing at her skirts six years past in the great hall of Winterfell. Renly Baratheon sweeps her across the floor as the fire threatens to blaze; the Lord of Nightsong watches bereft as they disappear in a flurry of merry steps.

“It is high time my brother was wed,” remarks Robert, his storm-blue eyes busy on the same scene. “Would that there were another maid with a smile like sunshine to be found amongst the roses of Highgarden.” He meets Ned’s stare now with a frown. “Our grandchildren will grow from the same tree of green-and-gold, Ned Stark.” Old hurts shine his eyes to tears. “Half a lifetime ago, we could have been brothers by blood as well as bond… a day of fire and storm took that from us as the ruby ford took Rhaegar’s blood.” Anger flashes with tears. “In my dreams, I kill him every night. A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.” He takes a shuddering breath. “But I am flesh-and-blood and no amount of yearning will bring ash and bone back to life… your handmaid taught me that.” He gives a small smile. “Stag and wolf will never be joined by sister-blood… but through the green-and-gold rose, they will become cousin and kin and family.” He raises his wine cup. “To kin, Ned Stark – to _family_.”

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Renly Baratheon proves a gallant partner in Bryce Caron’s stead. He spins Nell for the time of a few country jigs and a Dornish dance quicker and merrier than the rest. He is a slender spit of Robert, handsome with heavy black hair and warm blue eyes. _A maiden’s young dream_ , thinks Nell, _though that is all he’ll ever be to their beds: a dream_. Even now as he sets her down from their dancing with a gracious smile and lovely words, his eyes look past her shoulder to the spinning Tyrell siblings. _It is the thorn he seeks with those warm blue eyes, not the rose_. Nell glances up to the high table of the feast and sees the same thought pass across Ned’s grey eyes. It streaks fleeting as a storm cloud before heat replaces it; his gaze lights on her white throat and she feels the fire of his hunger warm her belly. Her blood turns hot now, her gown feels tight against skin turned to flame by those deep grey eyes. The ache starts between her legs; he smiles knowingly.

“Care to dance?” comes a cool voice at her ear.

Fire turns to ice in her veins. She turns on her heel and stares at the man before her. Gone are rich clothes in half a hundred shades of plum and rose and mauve. Gone are boots of the softest leather dyed dark as wine. Gone is the silver mockingbird pinning cloak and doublet. The torchlight flutters in the cold air sweeping through the pavilion, throws a flare of light across his face. Nell sees that his eyes are still silver and cold as coin.

“Should you not be juggling with Moon Boy?” says Nell, quick and sharp.

“I jape and I jest, Lady Northwood,” says Littlefinger, his voice as cold as his eyes. “I do not juggle.” He dips his head. “Unlike Moon Boy, I even chose my own name.”

“Baelish the Bold, is that the name you have chosen for yourself?” asks Nell, her tone cool and light amongst the warmth of the pavilion. She pauses to look hard at him, her eyes drinking in his chequered garb. “Motley suits you well, my lord.”

Littlefinger’s smile is small and cool; the bells on his fool’s hat jingle softly in the cold breeze stirring the pavilion’s drapes. Around them, people move as swift and thick as rainwater, washing through the silk walls in a flood of footsteps and frenzied shouts. The moon is high without and a chill seeps into the fire-lit air even as the braziers are fed and stoked to ward off the night.

“I underestimated you,” says Littlefinger, voice as cool as his smile. “You looked as soft as any other maid at court, you moved with grace, you bowed your head and sank your curtsies, you were dutiful and polite and kind.” His eyes meet with hers now, gleaming silver in the flickering torchlight. “But there was iron beneath the velvet of your voice – I know that now, Lady Northwood.”

“You spoke true that night of rain and riot, my lord,” says Nell softly. “You called me bitch – and like a hound I smelt your fear.” She tilts her head and looks full at him. “I sensed it the moment we left Chataya’s brothel. I saw it in every turn of your head and leap of your eyes to sidestreet and alleyway.” A small smile twists her lips. “Little did you know that the men who moved in the shadows around us did not belong to you. A tide of grey-and-white and black-and-gold to break through your friends of crimson plate.”

“Friends?” snorts Littlefinger, shaking his head and setting his bells to ringing. “Acquittances, alliances, enemies… but friends? There is no such thing as _friend_ in the Red Keep, my lady.” He returns her smile. “Lord Stark would have learned that to his misfortune – had it not been for his lady wife’s faithful little handmaid.” His eyes light now, silver and quick and cold. “He _is_ devoted to you, isn’t he, Lady Northwood? I watched him fight his way through a dozen Lannister men to cross that square – he cut through them as a wolf does a flock of sheep.” He raises a gloved hand and strokes his pointed beard with fingers of red velvet. “He reminded me of his brother Brandon that night of rain and riot… I wonder, did Ned Stark fight to defend the honour of a loved one, too?”

Nell looks full at Littlefinger and feels the hate for him burn like fire in her heart. _Would that Ned had struck you down that night of rain and riot, Petyr Baelish, would that he had_ … She makes herself smile prettily and narrows her eyes at him as if he is run half-mad. She reaches out a hand and trails a finger over the bells of his hat; her heart surges to see the light die a little in his eyes.

“Look at you, Lord Baelish,” says Nell softly. “Talking of honour and love and duty whilst you stand there in your garb of yellow and blue and red velvet. You make as much sense as the sound of the little bells dangling from your jester’s cap.” She dips her head to him. “A sweet little tune, to be sure… but your bells have as little power as a scattering of raindrops on desert dunes.”

Littlefinger’s eyes leap at that; Nell watches remembrance and recognition dawn on his face to hear his own words spun again from that rain-swept ride through the black city streets. His red glove is at his chin, twisting and tugging the pointed beard.

“And words of silver song?” he says coldly. “What power have they now that winter has washed the desert clean?”

“That is the thing with words,” says Nell, her eyes bright on his. “They can be wrought and wrangled and spun anew, they can form webs of silk or webs of storm. They can be a spell or a song, a whisper or a shout. They can be blood or bones, fire or ice… they can be life or death, Lord Baelish.” She draws back from him a step, her smile cool and demure as any soft maid at court; but iron peeks beneath velvet. “Pretty words of silver song can turn a man from coin to comedy – they can make a lord a fool.”

“I hear tell Catelyn Stark will soon be on her way to the capital,” says Littlefinger. “How will silver words fare from lord to lady wife, I wonder?” His eyes gleam. “As fool I see a thousand times what I saw as lord, my lady.” He smirks. “Comedy makes me richer than any coin ever could.” He narrows his eyes. “Mayhap I owe you thanks in place of curses… it was your silver words that made it so, after all.”

_Let him seek to cow me, let him slip me threats as cold and cruel as his eyes_. Nell sets her face calm and raises a brow. _So long as he keeps away from the girl with flames for hair and sapphires for eyes, let him do whatever else he will_. The dancers move in a rush of silk and velvet around them as they stand frozen off from the warmth of sound and song. She feels Ned’s eyes on her neck but she doesn’t dare turn to meet his gaze. Instead she looks full at Littlefinger with fire in her heart.

“Half a year I have been in this carnival of souls,” says Nell, cool and calm. “I stepped as a green girl into this court of blood and fire to help my lord sort the mess of queen and king.” Her eyes flash on his. “At first, I balked at every shadow that followed my step, I feared silver eyes and the sharp tongue of the lord who wielded them… yet look at us now, my lord.” She dips a curtsey to the lord in the garb of a fool; he stares at the handmaid of the salt winds and balks at the fire in her gaze. “Motley suits you well, Baelish the Bold.”

Nell turns from him, from Ned, from all of them, from all of it. _Politics and plots_. She sets her step sure and strong as if her knees are not turned to water, as if her hands are not trembling where they twist into her silver-smoke gown. _Flatterers and fools_. She emerges from the firelit glow of the pavilion; chill night hits her like a sea-wave, clouds her eyes, fills her nose, pushes past her teeth. She shudders and wants to scream. _Whore and harlot and heathen, that is all you are, Nell Northwood_. She wants to curse the day Ned plucked her from the Drowned God’s grip, but she can’t. _Not now, not ever – he is my lord, my love, my everything_. She wants to run from the storm that clouds her strong as silver words: a storm of shame she has long forgot living leagues from lady wife and honour and duty. She faces the rush of the Blackwater now, smells its salt and smoke; she fights from panic, sets her eyes, masters her fate. _I am a handmaid of the salt winds, I have weathered storms before_. She thinks of silver eyes and cool smile and feels fire glow thick and fierce in her heart. _I will weather this one, too_ …

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _You are too hard on yourself, Ned_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 12: Eddard II.  
> 2\. _No, not as bad as Aerys_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 47: Eddard XIII.  
> 3\. _Let me tell you a secret, Ned_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 30: Eddard VII.  
> 4\. _In my dreams, I kill him every night_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 4: Eddard I.  
> 5\. Stag and rose move together, mockingbird is remade to motley but his beak is sharp as ever, leaving words of warning chiming soft as silver bells… a storm is coming.


	7. Wormwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Hard frost turns the shadows of the Red Keep to silver flame. The day dawned chill and crystal. Even now with the sun halfway risen to the crest of the ice-blue sky, the frost shines like glitter on the crooks and twists of tower and turret. _Summer lasted ten years_ , Nell thinks, _yet autumn sets heavy in a moment_. She wears a cloak of heavy wool, the collar trimmed with fur and turned up against her throat, but she shivers where she walks in the shade of the cloistered pathways. Behind her, the master of whisperers strolls in the opposite direction; his cloud of perfume and powder drifts lazy as the wilting flowers peeking over the waist-height walls. Nell thinks on his words and feels a flicker of warmth glow in her heart. _Figures cloaked and hooded have skipped from keep to ship and now to shore_. She thinks of emerald eyes burning through iron bars and sighs. _Half a promise to penitent queen is spun true_.

The other half remains as a sweep of smoke and soot rippling behind crimson cloak and golden plate. Jaime Lannister harries the riverlands still, but word has come from Deep Den: a score of men and horse swept through three days past with the Old Lion at their head. _Soon the rowdy cub will be called to heel_. Nell stares out at the city spilling dark as blood on the hills before her. At her fingertips, the bursts of yellow and purple petals are hard-edged in the chill sunlight; dahlias and cyclamen sway and dip at the flutter of her touch. Snowdrops catch the cold breeze and chime softly against one another’s petals. _Like little silver bells_. She thinks of Littlefinger now in his motley of blue and yellow and gloves of red velvet. _A lord in the garb of a fool_. Yet his eyes have lost none of their sharpness: they looked at her silver and cold and quick as ever at the betrothal feast. She feels them on her even now as she treads the pathways with only the sun and a handful of blossoms for company; she shivers. _Beasts lurk in the shadows of this place, they move in every crook and crack in the stones – and the mockingbird flits as prince amongst them all_ …

Nell has stayed from Ned’s bed since that night of silver warnings and cool smiles. Littlefinger spoke true enough: Catelyn Stark makes her way by the River Road to come to King’s Landing in time for her daughter’s wedding. Last Nell heard, her lady was at Darry awaiting fresh horses. _Mile by mile she draws nearer, soon enough she’ll be turning up through the King’s Gate… but not yet, not yet_. Her fingertips close on a spray of flowering wormwood; she looks at the ghostly petals and thinks of the day she took ship from the white-washed streets of White Harbor with her lady at her side. Half a year since they stepped foot in King’s Landing and half a year, too, since Catelyn Stark stepped right back out of it, leaving Nell to play handmaid to her lord husband’s lonely little keep. _I have grown too used to the comfort of my lady’s absence_ , thinks Nell guiltily. She strokes the pallid bloom gently. _Grown too used to staying longer in the lord’s bed and stealing kisses in the godswood_. Littlefinger’s quick cool eyes flash in her head now and she shudders. _So what if as fool he sees a thousand times what he saw as lord, if there is nothing in plain sight to see_ … She sets her face and releases the soft white wormwood petals.

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The solar is warm and thick with the heat coming off the fire in the hearth. _Too warm_ , thinks Ned with a frown. He has heard the quip of Starks being made of ice and snow more times than he can count since he has been Hand of the King. Sitting here in the hot solar atop the Tower of the Hand, he wonders of the truth of it. _Perhaps it is shame that boils my blood_. He looks at the flames flickering in the hearth and grumbles in his chest. Nell has been so long from his bed that last night he even dreamt of her.

A dream of wedding vows and winter roses. He was stood before Catelyn in the sept at Riverrun but as he pushed back her maiden’s cloak to settle one of grey wool in its stead, the hair red and rich as fire was black and silky as dragonglass. It was Nell staring up at him with eyes of storm in the godswood of Winterfell, her lips shaping solemn words before the great weirwood tree – then her face shifted to another’s and a crown of winter roses sat her brow: ice-cold and ice-blue. _Promise me, Ned_. He woke both shamed and saddened.

Even now with the hard frost glinting on the roof-slates without, the dream swirls like smoke in the red-hot solar atop the Tower of the Hand. He frowns at the letters and scrolls scattered on the desk before him, picks up quill and ink to form words and orders – yet his mind wanders. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ … He remembers that day fifteen years past, remembers the solemn words, the exchanging of cloaks, the sunlight dancing through the leaded glass of Riverrun’s sept. He remembers Jon Arryn assuring him that the Old Gods wouldn’t mind a jot that a Stark was wed in a sept in the light of the Seven, but it rankled then as it rankles now. Still, he did his duty and took his brother’s bride with the eyes of his gods far away by ford and forest. _Did they mind? Did they truly?_ He thinks now of his lady wife dandling the River Road toward the capital. He thinks of the sons they have left behind at Winterfell and stares out to the frosty rooftops of the Red Keep.

“Winter is coming,” he says, his voice rough as the smoke from the fire.

“A wedding first,” comes a velvet voice from the doorway. “Winter second.”

Ned looks from the leaded glass and turns from his letters and scrolls. Nell sways beneath the curved archway sheltering the desk at which he sits and draws back the hood of her heavy cloak. Her eyes are bright and blue as the sunset sea, her cheeks high with colour from the icy air without. Hair black and silky as dragonglass streams down her back and for a moment his dream blends with reality. He shakes his head to clear its smoke and narrows his eyes at her.

“You’ve strayed far and wide as a mermaid nigh on a sennight,” says Ned, the grumble threatening to sound again in his chest. “Now you come before me bright and beautiful as winter wildflowers and expect me not to act the wolf.” He sees the smile start on her plush lips as his eyes darken. “You really are cold and cruel as the sea, Nell Northwood.”

“Has my lord been lonely?” asks Nell in that soft warm voice she uses just for him. She steps around the desk of old oak and slips between it and him, looking down at him with a sweet little smile as he tips his head back to stare up at her. Her little hand strokes back the dark hair from his brow and he nearly groans; her eyes leap with fire. “My poor lovesick lord.”

“Aye,” murmurs Ned, his great hands running the curve of her waist and twisting into the velvet at her hips. “Lonely and lovesick, Nell Northwood.” He pulls with his grip on her gown and she tumbles into his lap. “Last night, I even dreamt of you.” Their lips come together in a surge of tongue and taste; he drinks her in and shudders with the wanton heat flooding his blood. “Though in both dream and day, you had on too much silk.”

Her eyes light at that. She rolls her hips against him as his fingers whisper up beneath her skirts and her nails knot into his dark hair. Her voice is as honeyed as her kiss. “Did I look beautiful in my lord’s dream?” He nods against her mouth and sweeps aside her linen shift. Their eyes meet as he runs his hand between her legs, parts her easily and begins to play a tune with thumb and finger. He groans into her kiss to feel how wet she is. “How I have missed these warrior’s hands.” She draws his free hand to her lips and nibbles at his fingertips. “Have they missed me?”

He takes her lips in answer, a swift savage kiss that leaves them both gasping and mewling. One great hand sweeps the desk clear of paper and parchment whilst the other continues its deadly dance between her thighs. She shivers and squirms, leaning into his touch as he hefts her up onto the old oak and fights with her skirts. Her hands are everywhere all at once, tangling in his beard, yanking at his hair, reaching for his hips. They are green lovers frantic for skin and salt and sweat and sweet heat. His mouth is at her throat before it trails a line of fire over the tops of her breasts; he nips her there, marks her with his teeth and takes her mouth again. She whimpers and spreads her thighs wider as his hand busies itself with his laces and he frees his cock and makes to bury himself in her heat before he is run mad by the wanting –

“ _Nell_!” comes a shrill scream from the tower stair. “It’s near midday and Jeyne won’t plait my hair and Arya can’t find her dress for King Robert’s wedding.” Sansa’s voice is muffled by stone and steps and the heavy door of the solar but her impatience is clear as crystal. “Nell! _Where_ are you?”

Ned and Nell give a groan together. He sags back into his chair, pulling his laces closed as she sits up with hair mussed and skirts around her waist. She slides off the desk of old oak and scattered papers, the gown falling into place as she runs a hand through her ebony curls. She meets his eyes with laughter in her gaze. _Bright and beautiful as winter wildflowers_ , thinks Ned as she puts her hands on his shoulders and leans down for a fleeting kiss. He drinks her in, hungry for more, his hands knotting at her hips.

“My lovesick lord must needs wait,” she breathes against his lips. She draws back and the sun catches on her blue-grey eyes and Ned thinks he has never seen something so beautiful. “There’s a wedding to be had and time enough to act the wolf later.”

She leaves him with a soft little smile and her scent on his skin. He watches her go in a swirl of skirts and hears her steps skipping on the stone stair, her sweet voice calling out to his girls who bleat back at her like lost little sheep. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ … Ned shakes the smoke of his dream away and sets to picking up the scattered papers. _Wedding first and winter second_. He glances through the leaded glass; out past the frosty rooftops he fancies he sees a storm coming – and he shakes that from his mind now along with the smoke of his dream.

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Robert Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell are wed at noonday in the Great Sept of Baelor. Bells strike loud and true: a softer song than rang for the last queen. Chill sunlight turns all and everything to crystal and colour. Later the moon chases the sun away but not the chill; braziers flare and flicker where the king and queen sit the great hall for their wedding feast. The Iron Throne looms as a spectre of swords and shadows behind them, black as pitch, sharp as steel. _A throne of thorns_ , thinks Nell, _capped by a crown of roses_. She stands in the shadow of one of the redwood archways and watches the court grow rowdy.

Up on the raised dais before the Iron Throne sit the newlyweds. _Gone is crimson queen, here now is a queen of green-and-gold_. Splendid in emerald gossamer and honeysuckle lace, Queen Margaery sits as a sun where shadows used to lurk. Half a hundred candles turn her to moon and star; she smiles prettily, she laughs graciously, she bows her head and looks out at the court with warm eyes, she claps to hear the handmaid and her harp, she holds the hand of her husband and raises her gilded cup to his toast. _Wedded and soon-to-be bedded_ … Nell can see the warmth in Robert’s storm-blue eyes from her archway; she bites her lip and looks to find eyes grey as storm in the crowds.

The chair of the Hand is empty on the dais and the swirl of lords and ladies stepping and dancing before it is so thick Nell sees only blurred faces and fever-bright eyes twisting and twirling in jigs. She can feel the blood beating in her throat as her eyes slip from candleflame to shadow, searching for her lord of white and grey. _Mile by mile my lady draws closer_. The need for him swirls bitter as wormwood and wine in her belly; her eyes are dark with drink and her hips are hot with hunger. _But not yet, not yet_. Her lip is between her teeth, she lifts to her tiptoes to peek over the streaming crowd. _Ned, oh Ned_ … She sinks back to her feet and frowns with frustration to see his chair still sit empty.

“Your song left many a lord broken-hearted, my love,” comes a voice dark with smoke in her ear. “Me most of all.”

Nell’s breath hitches in her throat as she keeps her eyes forward on the swirl of silk skirts and skipping figures dancing before her. _Ned_. She feels heat and spice flare in her blood as Ned’s great hands untangle the lyre from her fingers. Perhaps it is the wine that makes them bold or else the pleasures denied this morrow; they thread their way through the shadows of the redwood archways and out through the brass doors of the great hall. They trip and trot their way across the outer yard, snatching breath between quiet laughter.

They slip like shadows up the stone stair, twisting and turning and emerging breathless and chuckling where the steps give out to the upper galley. The Tower of the Hand is empty and quiet; flames flicker in the wall sconces and chase light and dark across the flagstones and tapestries of red and yellow hanging the walls. Ned presses Nell back against the crimson fabric of a hunting scene and kisses her hungrily, his hands roving from her throat to her waist.

“You taste of wine and sin,” breathes Nell, taking his lip in her teeth and denting it gently. Her eyes are dark with drink and desire and Ned groans low in his throat, his nose rubbing against hers. They kiss again, slow and soft, and she gives a little moan when his hands hook on her hips and heft her up into his arms. “Out here, my lord?” She laughs against his mouth and draws back, her fingers on his neck. Sudden as a storm, her eyes set lazy and languid and she rolls her hips against his belly, desire burning her cheeks.

“Would the lady be fucked in the lord’s own bed, instead?” asks Ned, his voice rough and low with laughter, his eyes black with lust. They are drunk on wine and ale and mead, on the glow of the wedding feast, on the hunger burning in each other’s eyes. Nell’s hands sink into his dark hair and pull his head back, her plush lips opening on his mouth and drinking him greedily. Her hands squeeze his shoulders before he feels her fingers scrabbling at his belt, circling his cock, the heels of her hands pushing the breeches down over his hips. He runs his hand up along her thigh and cups her cunt in his palm. She writhes and whimpers and rises like a sea-wave in the vice of his arms as he sinks his finger into her and rolls her with his thumb. “Wine and sin, you say?” She watches mad with hunger as he lifts his fingers to his lips and sucks the shine off his thumb; he traces the line of her jaw and bites his lip. _Wild, wild wolf_. “It is the sweetest taste, Nell Northwood.”

“Get inside me, my lord,” murmurs Nell, spreading her thighs wider, her heels crossing over his back and pulling him against her. He takes her mouth and she moans as the taste of her scent spreads like smoke on her tongue; her hips roll as he presses his cock inside her in one swift thrust. “Gods, Ned.” Her voice is a breathy rasp at his ear, her nails making red marks on his neck. She shudders in his arms and pulls him deeper, her walls surging around him like liquid fire, her hand straying to the hair at his nape and stroking it smooth.

“After all these years,” she whispers now. “Still it feels like I die a little every time you are inside me.” She feels his teeth on her throat before he gazes full at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. “It is the sweetest feeling, Ned Stark… sweet and sharp all at once.” _Love is a poison_. Nell fights the red-and-gold words from her head even as she feels their truth surge strong inside her as Ned. _A sweet poison – but it will kill you all the same_. Ned kisses the panic from her face and holds her chin in his great hand as he slides into her slower, steadier, setting her belly to bursting and her thighs to twitching as the thread of closure pulls tight around her hips.

“I am never so alive as when I am inside you, Nell Northwood,” rasps Ned, running his rough thumb over her plush lips. “Love and death, like ice and fire.” He feels her come apart in his arms, her nails digging into his wrist at her chin, her cry a pearl of teeth and pink tongue as her cunt pulses around his cock and draws out his own storm of seed and sound. “Would that I could be always inside, my love.”

He robs the soft sound bleeding from her lips with his own. They are twined in each other’s arms when sounds rise up from the tower’s stair: clattering footsteps, drunken laughs, girlish giggles, the stern voice of the septa ordering everybody to bed. Ned and Nell look at each other with eyes wide from laughter and slide from the crimson wall, hurrying like harvest lovers to the lord’s bedchamber. Nell lets loose her chuckle as Ned bolts the door behind them and she turns to face him, eyes bright with mirth. He is looking at her a little strangely, his eyes dark, his mouth a twist of sad smile. Nell steps toward him and looks up at him with eyes narrowed in question, a half-smile quirked on her lips.

“What is it, my lord?” she asks, her head tilted to one side.

Ned frowns down at her and his hands come to rest easy on her shoulders, but his eyes are everywhere except her face. They flit from her hair to her cheeks to his hands and back again. He clears his throat.

“Something Robert said at the tourney feast,” he says quietly, his frown deepening.

Nell’s brows quirk together at his mention of a feast that feels half a lifetime ago; but she does not ignore it. “About what, my lord?”

“You.” He meets her gaze now.

“What did Robert say at the tourney feast about me, Ned?”

“He said… he asked if I’d had you,” stumbles Ned, his eyes sheepish, his fingers tense on her shoulders. “Said if you were in his household, he’d have got… got a…”

Nell bites her lip, understanding in an instant, the hot pulse of the crimson wall fading like smoke from her womb, ice-water turning wine as bitter as wormwood in her belly. “A babe on me by now, is that it?” She sighs. “A bastard or two or twelve?”

Ned closes his eyes and lets out a ragged breath and when he blinks at her again, his eyes are wine-dark and weary.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Yes.” His eyes travel unbidden from her face to her waist and his hands slip from her shoulders to her belly. “A babe on you, my love.”

She steps back from him sharply and he sways a little on his feet and watches her with languid eyes and questions lifting his cheeks.

“You ask this now,” she says, her voice quiet fury, but her eyes are dull and sad. “After all these years… you ask this _now_.”

He steps toward her and catches her back in his embrace. She struggles against him for a moment, fleeing him even as his seed trickles cold and slow down her thigh. _Whore and harlot and heathen, that is all you are, Nell Northwood_. She feels as if she will burst into flames and disappear, but then his hands slip into her dark hair and run it smooth down her back. She gives a sigh and a shudder and tucks her cheek against his chest, the fur-trim of his cloak tickling her skin and making her eyes warm with tears.

“We’d have a pair of them by now, my love,” she whispers, and her voice is raw and ragged. “With hair black as storm and eyes grey as the sea. Wolf and iron and ice. Prowling and sailing beneath the name of Snow.”

Ned rests his cheek against her head and feels the hot scratch of tears in his throat.

“Where are they now, Nell?” he asks softly.

“Dead,” she murmurs suddenly, surprising them both. “Dead and never born, Ned Stark.” Her eyes stare empty and her heart is a stone in her chest. “A drop of pennyroyal, a spoon of honey, a mix of mint and tansy and wormwood – gone as quiet as the leaves that sink into the deep black pool of the godswood.” She shivers as if the chill wind of the north swirls in her ribs and thinks of a black-haired boy with solemn eyes so dark they glow purple in the starlight. “I’ll have no bastard caught in the power games of man and wife.”

Beneath her cheek, Ned shudders; the throb of angry silent tears rumbles through his chest and fills her ears. She looks up to see his cheeks are wet in the candlelight, his eyes great grey pools of sadness and despair.

“The whispers in this place,” says Ned breathlessly, his fingers slipping through her black hair. “They name you witch and whore and harlot. They say you span a siren’s spell that lured a good man onto a treacherous path.” He shakes his head vehemently, a tear running from his eye to the wilderness of his beard. “How wrong they see it, Nell. How topsy-turvy they understand it all.” A sob rips from his throat and he closes his eyes to feel her little hand smoothing at his cheek. “You were a girl when I took you from your home of black rock and seaweed, a girl with violet bruises and eyes as wild as the sea, a girl half-drowned and marked by a gift of silver.” He gazes down at her, his eyes red with anger and grief. “I destroyed you that day, Nell Northwood. I destroy you with every cup of moon tea you sup on.” The wine and weariness has vanished from his eyes, they glow furiously in the candlelight. “How can you stand me, Nell? How _can_ you?”

She rises to her tiptoes and presses her mouth to his before he can rage again; his sob rises from his throat and clouds her tongue. Her hands clutch at his face, her thumbs whispering across the black beard, her brow flickering as she drinks him deep. She draws back and breathes heavily as she stares at him with eyes of ice and fire.

“You are the love of my life, Ned Stark,” she hisses, thumbing at his down-turned lips and shuddering. “How could I ever hate you?”

“A better man would have set you free,” whispers Ned, resting his forehead to hers and bleeding tears onto her cheeks. “A better man would have lifted his gift of silver from your neck and seen you happy and healthy in the arms of another.” He closes his eyes and shivers, his face lifting to press his lips to her brow. “Would that I had been a better man.”

Nell’s arms twist beneath his fur-trimmed cloak and circle his waist, bringing his hard body flush against her own. She sinks from her tiptoes and tips her head back to look up at him, her fingers clutching desperately at his back. He opens his eyes and meets her gaze; blue-grey drinking in summer storm. His fingers whisper across her cheek before he smooths his thumb over her lips.

“I could not love a better man than the one who stands before me, my lord,” says Nell, her voice soft and sad as her eyes. “He is warm and true and good.” She finds his hand and presses his knuckles to her mouth. “He is steel and leather and storm and sentinel. He is the dark smoke of the north.” She rises to her tiptoes again and smooths the dark hair back from his brow. “He is my life and my light.” Her lips press to his cheek before she settles her brow on his; he rubs his nose gently against hers. “He is my love.”

She takes his lips with a whimper and kisses him with a strength as desperate as her fingers clutching at his back. He holds her hips and sweeps her into his arms; her legs wrap around his waist and her ribs creak in the crush of his embrace. They shake against each other like trees in a storm; their kiss tastes of salt water and sadness but they grip tight and ride the wave of grief like boats on a current. _Ships of ice and iron_. Ned presses her back onto the featherbed and buries his face into the curve of her neck as her hands fight for access to his skin. She tears at the clasps of cloak and doublet until her fingers scrape aside his linen shirt and find the warm hard belly beneath. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him down to her kiss. They move as animals: rough and quick and wild, tearing at silk and wool and skin and hair, needing each other’s heat and hands to quell the grief and hurt swirling thick as smoke about the room.

“No more moon tea,” growls Ned when at last he is inside her again. She opens her eyes, full and trembling like heavy water, and twists her face in the grip of his great hands, her breath a moan as she meets his gaze. His voice softens now. “My love, no more moon tea.”

She makes to speak but he silences her with his mouth, his hands circling her wrists and pinning them to the pillows above her head. He dips his lips to her throat, leaves a trail of fire along her jaw and cheeks. She moans and bites her lip, alive as the sea in his arms.

“My love,” she whimpers, gazing up at him. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“I know that you are my love and my life,” breathes Ned, moving inside her slow and deep and full. “I know that for as long as we live, I never want to see the light dim in your eyes, Nell Northwood.” The fire is in her gaze as he speaks, it bursts and ripples like flames in the dark. “A better man would have set you free, true enough… but you are mine, my love.” He kisses her, swift and sharp, his thumbs circling her wrists where he traps them above her head, his hips sure and hard against her own. “All of you: every bone and breath and beat of blood.” She comes with a harrowing moan as if her soul is being pulled through her chest and he dips his head and seals the sound with his lips to hers. “I’ll see no woodwitch’s brew strip any part of you – no matter the consequences.” He rests his forehead to hers and shudders at his own finish, his eyes bright as hers. “I promise, Nell.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Love is a poison_ … lifted from _A Clash of Kings_ Chapter 52: Sansa IV.  
> 2\. _A drop of pennyroyal, a spoon of honey_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 80: Sansa VII.  
> 3\. Stag is wed, strange dreams plague wolf, a secret of salt water slips out, and twin storms are coming: from roads of both Gold and River…


	8. Tooth and Claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

The storm arrives six days after Ned saw it brooding beyond the frosty rooftops of the Red Keep. It sweeps in from the westerlands in a haze of fast hooves and rumbling plate; hard riding and fresh horses have seen two hundred leagues along the Gold Road covered near as fast as the raven flies. _Soon enough a lion will stride once more into the throne room_ , Ned thinks wearily. Even here sat in the dawn-lit glow of his bedchamber, he can hear the sounds of men and mount clattering up from the cobblestone yard. _Soon enough lion will face down wolf and stag_. Ned lifts himself from the bed and steps over to the window. He pushes the shutters back and looks out through the leaded glass.

A swirl of crimson and gold greets him. He narrows his eyes and counts at least a hundred men in mail and plate. Horses of half a hundred different shades of bay and grey and black are being led below the portcullis toward the stables. Standards rest at ease as men dismount and bark orders; a dozen lions roar across fields of crimson. _A bold show for such a shrewd man_ , thinks Ned. He scans the ranks of golden helms and finds what he seeks in an instant. Tywin Lannister sits airily astride a white stallion amongst his swelling ranks of gold and red, turning out commands left and right as if the keep has become a battlefield whilst the castle slept.

“He rides in like a conquering hero,” comes a velvet voice at his elbow. “Let’s hope it is his pride he seeks to conquer… and not the realm.”

Ned turns to look at Nell. Her hair is a splash of ink against the white linen shirt she’s filched from his chests and draped herself in. The black-red glow of the rising sun limns it orange and yellow and crimson; it burns as though she is wearing a cloak of fire. The same light shines in her blue-grey eyes as she stares out of the window to the tide of red-and-gold on the cobblestones below. Words of mint and moon tea still cut quick and sharp as knives days after they were spoken; but he dare not broach them again – the fire in her eyes warned him off that night as it warns him off this morrow. He gazes at her now, remembering some gruff charge of Robert’s after he’d got a bastard on a girl in the Vale. _He looked full at me and told me a man does not decide if a woman will bear his child – she decides herself_. Ned runs a hand over his beard. _True enough, men do not come into it, once the seed is planted_... He has no right to grief or anger; yet the idea of Nell sinking a cup of tansy tea in the shadows of the godswood whilst he ran and laughed with his children in the sunlight feels like a dagger to his belly.

“You sound like a lord of the small council,” says Ned, fighting from his thoughts. “Seems all they do is worry where the lion will next set his paw.” She turns from the window and meets his eyes. “Leave the lion to me, Nell Northwood.” He cups her cheek in his palm and feels his heart flutter to see her smile. “And I’ll leave the girls to you.”

“They’ll be there,” promises Nell, covering his hand with her own. “In gowns of grey and on their best behaviour.” She steps back and makes a show of looking at him in his doublet of dark grey velvet; the glow of dawn catches the direwolf running in white thread across his breast. “There won’t be lord or lion to match you, Ned Stark.” Her fingers smooth the dark hair back from his brow. “Steel and leather and storm and sentinel.” She lifts to her tiptoes and presses a kiss on his mouth. “The dark smoke of the north.”

“Nell,” he murmurs, his eyes sinking soft and unsure on hers. “It was not my place to ask what I asked of you the night of Robert’s wedding.” He looks full at her; she sees the need for forgiveness darken his grey eyes. “Not a word of complaint have you given these nine years past for the part I’ve placed you in.” He rests his forehead to her own and sighs. “A better man would have – ”

She silences him with her mouth, her arms winding tight around his neck. He balks for a moment, swallowing his words, before his hands grip her waist and lift her into his embrace. He kisses her as she kisses him: deep and slow and endless. Her feet cross daintily around his broad back and she strokes the tension from his shoulders with her small hands; he shudders against her mouth. Her fingers find grip in his dark hair and she pulls his head back gently, presses a kiss above his wild black beard before she draws back to meet his gaze with eyes free of fire.

“One more word from you about a _better man_ and I’ll sail forth from this tower and hitch a lift with the Old Lion back to Lannisport,” she murmurs. “I’ll hop from his horse and catch ship back to Pyke and throw myself off one of its dripping bridges and return to the Drowned God’s embrace.” She runs her thumbs along his cheeks and smiles a soft little smile. “Yet even in the arms of a god, I’d find myself with a worse man than the one I give kisses to this morrow.” She takes his lips with hers and gives a little mewl to hear him moan soft and low from his throat. “No more words of better men, my love, you are the _only_ man who matters to me.”

They are spun still in their embrace when a soft knock on the door sounds loud as a thunderbolt to cut through their kisses. The voice of Vayon Poole passes on a royal command: Ned is needed in the throne room as soon as he is dressed and decent. After a gruff reply, they listen as the soft tread of the steward retreats down the tower’s stone stair. Ned gives a groan; Nell slides down his body, lands on her bare feet with a chuckle.

“Dressed, yes,” she whispers, smoothing his dark grey doublet. Her hands stray to the half-undone laces of his breeches and linger teasingly. “But _decent_ …” There is light and laughter in her eyes as she pulls his laces closed and ties them firmly. “Would you say you are decent enough to sit beside your king, my lord?” Her fingers brush up from his thigh and grip at his neck to yank his head down for another kiss. She pulls back after too short a time; he makes to tug her back, hunger heavy in his belly. “Would Eddard Stark ignore a royal summons to steal another kiss from his lady wife’s handmaid, for true?”

Lust coils with laughter in their eyes as he looks at the mock shock painting her lovely face. “Yes,” growls Ned, sinking a hand into her black hair and lifting her face. “Yes, he would.” He takes her lips, once, twice, quick glancing flicks of taste and tongue. “He would steal as many kisses whilst he can.” _Before the figures of king and wife storm this happy little scene_ , he thinks. Guilt flares with the greediness her eyes bring out in him, but he fights such thoughts from his head. “You’ll leave me wild as a wolf to face this lion, Nell Northwood.”

“Good,” whispers Nell, drawing back at last and putting her hand to his lips. “The lion comes for stag with claws drawn and pointed.” She drinks in the fire glowing wild in his gaze and smiles. “It’s time enough for wolf to show his teeth before that throne of thorns.” She runs her thumb over his lips, pushes it into his mouth and gives a little sigh as he dents it with his teeth. “And I’ll be watching from the shadows… awaiting my turn with the wild, wild wolf come dark.”

ლ

Nell has ever seen the throne room this full only at feast-days and courtly revels. On days such as those, the great hall is aflame with light and laughter, spinning silks, dancing lords, trestle tables buried beneath the weight of harvest. Today, the cavernous space is near silent. Men stand soft and solemn as lambs before their shepherd; here and there nerves break and a tweet or coo sounds loud as a shout amongst their ranks. Weak sunlight floods through the high windows ringing the eastern and western walls. Thin curtains of pale light break and ripple across the spectre of swords and shadows looming black as pitch from the raised iron dais. _A throne of thorns_ , thinks Nell, _stag sits it well enough, though the gods know it was never meant to be sat easy_.

Robert Baratheon fills the Iron Throne like a king of old, his storm-blue eyes fixed firm and hard above his great black beard as he stares through the sea of sheep to the brass-fitted doors creeping open. Ghosts flank the twisted steps up to his seat; the sunlight turns the two Kingsguard to blinding white. To the left of the throne in a high-backed chair carved of rosewood sits Margaery Tyrell, garbed in green-and-gold, her circlet gone in favour of a heavier twist of golden petals framing her long brown curls. She looks out, cool and calm beyond her years, to the same fixed point as her husband. To the right of the twisted seat sits the Hand of the King. _Ned_. Direwolf is shone to silver in the sunlight where it runs across the field of smoky velvet. He wears his lord’s face, but Nell can see the fire in his eyes: they shine wolf-wild above the wilderness of his beard. _Wild, wild wolf_. He looks out over the assembled lords, the twittering ladies, the gold-cloaks ringing plinth and pillar, and Nell feels pity in her heart for the man that is about to come before him. _Lion comes for stag with claws drawn and fangs bared – yet the wolf has teeth to match_.

The brass-fitted doors are thrown open; a flurry of cold air sweeps in off the outer yard and extinguishes half the torches of the porchway. A herald steps into the lopsided light and cries half a dozen titles, but his voice is drowned out by the murmur rising from the sea of sheep. They dip and sway caught between three beasts of claw and tooth and antler; the murmur falls to a deadly hush as the Old Lion enters the throne room.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, the Warden of the West. _A lion spun of red and gold_. He strides between the flocks of sheep swelling the great hall to bursting, his gold-edged boots sounding a true marching beat on the Myrish carpets running from door to throne. What sunlight there is seems absorbed by his armour; Sansa whispers that it is the finest plate she has ever seen. Crimson and black and gold, it drinks the light of sun and torch and burns brighter than both. Lions wrought with rubies prowl his shoulders and snarl at his throat. The face above his swirling cloth-of-gold cape is stern and strong, bordered by whiskers that glint like spun gold on his cheeks. _The lion lacks a mane_ , thinks Nell as she looks at his shaven head, _but there is no doubting from his eyes that he is beast true enough_. He stops at the foot of the Iron Throne.

Three beasts of tooth and claw and antler look coolly at each other whilst the sheep stand silent at their backs. The throne room is a ripple of held breath; the torchlight glitters on frenzied eyes. Nell can share in none of their excitement. She thinks of promises made to penitent queens, of cubs whisked hundreds of leagues from hearth and home, of northmen fighting the sweep of smoke that follows a cloak of crimson. Sansa’s hand trembles where it rests on Nell’s sleeve; even Arya stands still as Baelor’s statue, gazing at the scene before her with wide grey eyes. Septa Mordane holds tight to Jeyne’s wrist and whispers a prayer to the Mother beneath her breath. _What good are songs and prayers when it is men who rule in place of gods?_ Nell knows that men turn back to beast no matter what godly prayers are thrown against them.

It is Ned who speaks first, his voice the dark smoke of the north.

“Lord Tywin Lannister,” he says, his words carrying like thunder over the hushed ranks of the throne room. “Do you come to swear fealty to your king?”

“My oath to Robert Baratheon was made fifteen years ago,” answers Tywin Lannister, cool and calm as still water. “It was made amongst the blood and fire of a sacked city when I forsook the dragon and knelt to the stag’s greater strength.” He drops to one knee before the throne amidst a clamour of excited voices. “It was bolstered by a marital bond and brightened by coin and arms.” He stares up at the twisted seat of iron and meets the eyes of the king. “It was broken the day you killed my daughter.”

Shouts echo up now from the gallery, cries of _traitor_ and _abomination_ amidst uglier charges decrying the deeds of the Old Lion’s cubs. Sansa’s fingers are daggers on Nell’s sleeve; her heart feels half-choked by fire. _Strangle the roar to pin the claw - was it all for naught?_ Nell stares at the cloth-of-gold cape and thinks of the part she played that night when she slipped through the belly of Baelor’s sept. Ned stares out with eyes of ice from his high-backed chair, but Robert leans forward in his seat of barbs and knives.

“Your daughter killed herself, as well you know,” charges the king in a shout that would rouse even the cowardliest knight to charge. “She killed herself when she lay with her brother and grew great with his seed. She killed herself when she birthed abominations and passed them off as children of the crown.” He rises from his throne and descends the twisted steps of steel. “She killed herself with every scheme she hatched, every plot she planned, every pinch of poison she sought to pepper good men’s cups with.” He fills the throne room with sound and storm, his eyes wild as the sea that wrests itself against Storm’s End, his cheeks red with fury. “My headsman sent her to seven hells – but make no mistake, Lord Tywin, your daughter killed herself.”

Stag and lion stand within biting distance of each other, but Tywin Lannister remains on his knees, stiff-backed and proud even as he stares up at the king who looms a giant over him. _Wary eyes and quick claws_. Nell wonders, not for the first time, which beast will strike first. She looks to Ned sitting frozen with eyes of ice in his chair to the right of the Iron Throne. His face is a solemn stranger’s and she feels a thrill of fear bloom in her blood. _He is not Ned here in this court of kings – he is not lover or husband or father_. He runs a hand through his wild black beard and grits his teeth as if to snarl. _He is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, he is the Warden of the North, he is the Hand of the King, he is fire and ice and snow and storm_ …

“A wolf,” whispers Nell as Sansa grips her sleeve and Arya ducks behind her skirts to see their father so. “A wild, wild wolf.”

“Cersei Lannister was given a trial that befitted her birth and standing,” says Ned icily. “She was charged with high treason and crimes of conspiracy, adultery and incest – and she was found guilty, Lord Tywin.” His shoulders fill his chair as he stares down impassive as a warrior. “Her children were granted mercy, something you yourself denied a princess and a pair of babes during your swearing of oaths amongst blood and fire.” There is a low murmur of agreement now amongst the crowd. “Their father fled the city as a fugitive near half a year ago and treads his own band of blood and fire across the lands watered by the Trident.” He stands slowly and he is steel and leather and storm and sentinel. _He is a wolf come to tear the lion between his teeth_. “Your son takes up arms against northern bannermen and leaves the riverlands a blaze of smoke and slaughtered smallfolk. It will not stand, Lord Tywin.” His words are a growl. “It will _not_ stand.”

The Old Lion makes to roar; Ned silences him with a raised hand. Those warrior’s hands, thinks Nell and fear mixes with hunger in her belly. _Those hands that hold a warhorse in as easily as they heft greatsword and shield and silver necklaces in moonlit groves_ … Her fingers grip onto Sansa’s now and Arya peeks around her hip.

“You will call off your hound Gregor Clegane and send him home to his kennel,” charges Ned, cold and crisp as ice. “You will command Jaime Lannister to halt his harrying of the riverlands and call him to stand trial before the lords who judged his sister. You will summon your son Tyrion down from the Mountains of the Moon and see him swear an oath to his king on his knees before this court.” He dips down the twisted steps as graceful as a wolf, halting to the right of his king and staring down at the lion bent at their feet. “You will swear an oath yourself – here, now, before the eyes of gods and men.”

The Old Lion does not roar now: he mewls an oath upon his knees before the Iron Throne looming dark as pitch on its sharp bed of twisted swords. Ned stands over him. _Wild, wild wolf_ … The sunlight flies from Tywin Lannister’s crimson plate and flares full and true across the white direwolf running on dark grey velvet, floods the wolf-wild eyes of ice above it. _And mine_.

ლ

Near as soon as Tywin Lannister rises from his knees, ravens fly thick as blood from the Red Keep’s rookery. They bear letters signed by a lion’s paw and sealed with golden wax; the first step in calling rowdy cubs to heel. As ravens soar and lions nurse their wounds, a wolf prowls hard and hungry through the shadows dappling the Tower of the Hand.

Ned Stark feels half-drunk from a battle waged with words in place of swords. _Not a drop of blood spilled, yet bloodlust has never tasted so sweet_ … He makes his way silent as a shadow up the stone stair, twisting and turning with its curve, his hand trailing the rough bumps of brick and smooth weave of tapestries. _Is this how Brandon oft felt?_ He wonders it as he mounts the stairs. His brother had been wild as his sister – wolf blood, their father had called it. Brandon grew brash as the wolfswood he hunted and hawked; Ned grew quietly in the shadows of the Vale. _Shy and tongue-tied, couldn’t even ask a maid for a dance_ … He has oft thought the wolf blood that cursed his siblings never touched his veins but today staring down a lion he felt wild as Brandon and Lyanna put together. _Mayhap I have a touch of it after all_. He pauses at the door to Nell’s bedchamber and feels heat sway with hunger in his belly. _Or is it the ward that brings out the wolf?_ He slips inside and bolts the door behind him.

The little room is red-warm from the fire burnt low to embers in the hearth. It flickers and dances, sending out shadows of cherry and yellow and orange to limn the crimson hangings of the featherbed. The ironwood chest that holds her gowns and treasures is at its foot, a pile of skirts and sleeves and shift stacked atop it. He looks left to right like a wolf scenting his prey, impatience strong as fire in his chest, before his eyes light on the stone window seat and a groan rips from his throat.

Nell sits before the leaded glass of the window, her black hair a rumple of curls down her back. Fireflame bleeds with the moonlight filtering in through the golden glass; mixed shades of crimson and gold shine her cheeks and limn every curve of her body. She is naked as her nameday sat on her seat of stone, her slender legs crossed at the knee, her dainty foot bobbing up and down as she watches his eyes rove slow and heavy over her. Even now feet away from her heat and hands, his mouth waters with animal lust. _It is the ward that brings out the wolf, gods be true, gods be good, gods be damned_ … He pulls the clasp from his throat and the cloak falls in a heavy wave of grey wool to the floor.

“My lord returns,” murmurs Nell in that velvet voice she uses just for him.

“I am a wolf tonight,” growls Ned, crossing the room in three quick strides and sinking to his knees before her. She watches him with eyes of fire as he rubs his cheek against her knee, lands a bite on the soft skin just above it. “You look a queen sat here on your throne of stone.”

She bites her lip; her breath hitches in her throat. “My wolf is hot and hard and hungry as he looks.” Her pink tongue swipes her lower lip swiftly and he kneads the teeth-marks he’s left on her skin and unhooks her legs. “Queen of what, Ned Stark?”

“Queen of my heart,” whispers Ned, his lips a trail of ice and fire burning up the swell of her thighs. His heart is a burst of fire in his chest as he feels the smooth skin of her thighs open up beneath the roughness of his palms. She is moaning now, soft and slow like a wounded animal, and his eyes light on her cunt, pink and plush in the light of moon and fire flickering shadows across the room. Her hands come to rest gently on his head, her fingers twining into his dark hair as she bites her lip and stares at him with lust-wide eyes. She starts to whimper his name – he surges forward before she can stop him, his mouth closing on the glow of warmth between her legs.

Eddard Stark is not so shy and tongue-tied now as he was dancing at Harrenhal a lifetime ago. _The wolf blood burns strong in me as it did Brandon and Lyanna_. Here, in this red-warm room with his head between his ironlady’s legs, he is not lord or hand or husband or father: here he is a man, a wolf, a _Stark_. Nell taught him that nine years past, taught him to take and grasp and fight and fuck as Brandon always did, to laugh, to love, to _live_. The room is warm from moans as well as fire now. Nell leans back against the leaded glass, her hips tilted up to push against his wild black beard, her thighs hard as ice against his head as he kisses and sucks. Her fingers are twisted tight into his hair as she yanks his head where she would like it with reckless abandon; he follows her hand as she followed his from her home of black rock and storm. He growls against her cunt, drinks her taste and feels drunk on it. She is silver light and fireflame and meadowsweets and _life_. She writhes against his tongue and slits at his scalp with her nails as she gives a cry and sags against her throne of stone, spent and panting.

He draws back after a moment, pressing kisses to the skin of her thighs, laying his cheek against her leg and staring up at her. Collapsed back against the leaded glass of the window with honey light turning her hair to embers, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Her hand winds down slowly from his hair and sweeps to cup his chin. He captures her palm with a kiss.

“If only the men who pissed themselves at the sight of you in the great hall could see you now, love,” she whispers, hoarse and hot. Her eyes burn down on his and she gives a little whimper to see the smile flickering on his lips. “With your wolf-wild eyes and face between my thighs.”

Ned grinds his teeth and groans at that. He lets her lift herself from her seat of stone and pull him up with her grip on his chin. She makes quick work of his clothes; velvet and laces sink fast as flooded ships to the Myrish rugs underfoot. “Hot and hard and hungry.” Her voice is a warm whisper in his ear as she rises on her tiptoes and twines herself around him. “And _mine_.” He takes her mouth in a swift savage kiss, tastes the rust of blood and sees the bloom of it on her lip as he draws back and turns her sharply in his arms. Her back to him, she leans her hands against the leaded glass of the golden window, her back arching, her thighs spread wide as she sinks back into his hot hard belly. “ _Here_ , my lord?” She throws a look over her shoulder at him, her eyes flame and spice. “For all the world to see?”

“Aye.” The Red Keep spills like dark wine in the moonlight before them as Ned puts a heavy hand on her back and guides himself into her. “Here.” His voice is a groan from deep in his throat. Her cunt is a pulse of fire around his cock; he draws back and slides into her again, filling her, making her hips wriggle and her head go back in a soft little moan. He keeps a grip on her with a hand tangled in her hair whilst the other rests spread-fingered across the span of the small of her back. They roll and rock, surge and flare and twist together like iron and ice, like salt and snow. “Right _here_ , my love.”

The red-warm room is hot from more than fire: it is a swirl of spice and smoke and snapping teeth and snarls and soft heat and surrender. Ned Stark wonders if he has more than a touch of wolf blood in his veins after all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _You do not come into it, once the seed is planted_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 15: Jon II.  
> 2\. Lion is brought low before stag, wolf grows wild with his ward, but as the storm of gold fades to smoke, another stirs up from the River Road…


	9. Iron Sky

Letters are brought out with the food as the Hand’s household sit to break their fast. Ned sets down a heel of black bread and glances at the rolled papers. He spots the seals of half a dozen lords: gold, green, scarlet, pink. He sets them aside for the moment, picks up a scroll bound by the grey-and-white of Winterfell. _Broken but not beaten_ , thinks Ned with warmth in his heart. His son writes of the harvest, of granaries and barrels of salted boar, of the upcoming feast-day to host the northern lords before winter bites its grip on the lands of home. _Home_ … The warmth tarries with ice now as he closes his eyes and thinks of the grey stones and godswood. _Winter is coming_. He sighs and runs his gaze down the paper again.

“Bran writes that he is hale and hearty,” says Ned, looking up from the letter and glancing to where his daughters sit amongst oatcakes and honeycombs. “Maester Luwin has fashioned him a special saddle so he can ride about the yard.” Sansa smiles politely; Arya nods as she spears and stabs with her eating-knife. “Your brother sounds much himself – he even sends Nell a kiss and asks for a song in return.”

The small hall is a swell of warm laughter at that. It was oft the way back home that Bran would be sent red as his hair when a guard caught him staring lovesick at the handmaid as she played her harp. _A siren’s song_ , thinks Ned alongside laughter, _a powerful pull on boy and man both_. He meets Nell’s eyes with a smile and sets down his son’s letter. The laughter fades as eating resumes; Ned works his way through bread and broken seals. He glances up from time to time at the happy scene set before him: guards in silver hand-pins and smiles, girls chattering and chuckling – even Septa Mordane is sporting a half-smile to something Nell is saying. _Gods be good, a rare and rich sight_ … He finds a gold-sealed letter that smells of rosewater and sets it aside to give to Sansa later. Reluctantly, he sets the final scroll in his hands, breaks the red-and-blue wax with his thumb.

His lady wife writes from Brindlewood where they tarry for a night or two to rest beside an innkeep’s hearth. Ned brings a map of the Kingsroad to memory and finds the plot where the village sits a thumb’s width above Hayford. _Three days_ , he decides, _mayhap four before Cat turns up the King’s Gate_. He sets down the letter and runs a hand over his beard, worries his lip with his teeth. He wonders how he and Catelyn will find each other after near a year apart. Eyes resting on Nell’s bent head halfway down the table, Ned knows he is not the same man who rode forth from Winterfell all those moons ago. He is harder, hungrier, sharper. He moves through a court of blood and fire, slips past beasts of tooth and claw – and he is a wolf amongst them all. _The wolf blood burns strong in me as it did Brandon and Lyanna_. He thinks of the day Tywin Lannister trembled at his feet before the Iron Throne; his eyes darken as he thinks of the night that followed. He sees Nell as she was then: naked as her nameday on her throne of stone, her body bare and bright in the mixed light of moon and flame. _The ward brought forth the wolf that night, gods be good, gods be true, gods be damned_ … He thinks of her hands pressed flat to the leaded glass, her hips wide, her back arched, her breath a moan as he sank inside her and gazed out to the Red Keep dark as wine through the window before them…

Ned breathes hard through his nose as he comes to from his daydreams of fireflame and fevered-flesh. He rolls up the letter from his lady wife, half-shamed, half-shameless. He reminds himself that Catelyn may be changed, too. Half a year she has spent wandering the roads between Winterfell and Riverrun. _The scars from the assassin’s blade may have healed_ , he thinks, _but the memory of that night will haunt and harden her_. Bare a moon’s turn after she slipped from Littlefinger’s brothel with Ned’s call to his bannermen in her saddlebag, she was south again to Riverrun with Robb and half the north. _Praying in the same sept where she was wed to me_. Ned remembers his dream of wedding vows and winter roses and works his jaw. Three armies witnessed their vows, watched them exchange cloak and oath and kiss – but the eyes of the Old Gods were blinded by the light of the Seven spilling through the leaded windows of the sept. He shakes his head; he never cared what gods he married before fifteen years past, so why now are dreams and day haunted by questions of gods and men and wedding vows? _Because I am of the north now more than I’ve ever been_. The south has burned from him its own fingerholds formed during his eight years at the Eyrie. He learned lessons of honour there and they he will always keep – but honour can be only part of a man, the other half is formed of what he makes it.

“Is that from Mother?” asks a sharp voice at his shoulder.

Ned starts and curses. Arya tilts her head and stares at him with wolf-wild eyes. She is eager to turn loose to the bailey where her dance-master waits. Ned watches with warmth in his eyes as her feet hop and skip a little on the spot, her face keen. He nods and a scowl descends.

“She’ll never let me stay with Syrio,” thunders Arya, her foot turning to drumming on the flagstones. “She’ll haul me in from the yard and try to make me a _lady_.” She spits the word like it is bitter as bile in her mouth. “I want to _train_ , Father, I want to make Needle a part of my arm – but she won’t allow it, will she?”

Ned meets the grey eyes of his daughter and gives her a smile that lifts the worn lines of his face. He cups her cheek in his great hand and presses his thumb to her snub of a nose. They grin at each other.

“What your lady mother doesn’t know cannot hurt her,” he murmurs, raising a brow. “Now off you go to your dance-master to earn your bruises.”

Arya slips from the small hall before the command has cooled to air. _What your lady mother doesn’t know cannot hurt her_ … He winces at his own words and finds Nell’s stormy eyes with his own. She is looking at him in that beloved way of hers, her head a little to one side, a crooked smile playing on her lips. _Half honour, half heart_ , he thinks as he drinks her gaze and gives a smile of his own, _that is what makes a man_.

ლ

Rosewater floods the air as Sansa lifts the letter from her pocket. They sit on stone benches in the sunken gardens bordering the godswood. Weak sunlight flares overhead in an iron sky; Nell watches it strike gold as it catches on the blob of wax sealing the parchment held in trembling hands. Sansa’s cheeks are velvet and cream, lifted high by a white smile bursting her shell-pink lips wide. She scans the letter in a glance before lifting her gaze to meet with Nell’s. _Flames for hair and sapphires for eyes_ , thinks Nell. Her own mouth lifts in a smile to see the girl so glad.

“Queen Margaery invites me to sup with her tomorrow,” says Sansa, breathy with excitement. “In her ballroom at Maegor’s – she says there will be lemon cakes.” She bites her pink lip and blinks pretty as a doe. “Do you think she knows they are my favourite?” Her brows knit together. “Is this some trick or trap? Do they seek to trip me up and say I am no good for their heir?”

Nell feels pity swell in her heart at that. _Only a year and already she moves with the mistrust that feeds the belly of this viper’s pit_. For certain, Nell has been here half a year alongside her charges and seen them well and happy. Yet in the moons between the arrival of Ned Stark’s lonely little household to the Tower of the Hand and Nell stepping foot on the docks of King’s Landing, Sansa and Arya moved as easy prey to the beasts that lurk in the shadows of the Red Keep. _The mockingbird flitting prince amongst them all_. Nell shudders to think of Littlefinger’s silver eyes drinking up Sansa with hunger in his belly at the tourney, of his words in the shadow of the Tower of the Hand. _Cat’s own self he called her_ … But Nell’s charge she will stay: the handmaid would die before she let those quick cool eyes slither over Sansa ever again. She floods the thought of him from her head and smiles at Sansa now, finding her hand on the cold stone bench and squeezing it.

“It is an invitation to supper, my heart,” says Nell softly. “No more, no less.” Those sapphire eyes glow a little brighter. “The Tyrells move to make you welcome – not to trick or trap you. I’ve heard tell lemon cakes are Margaery’s favourite, too.”

“Shall I wear my rosewood silk, Nell?” asks Sansa, a quizzical look on her lovely face. “The one Mace Tyrell sent me when I was betrothed to Prince – to _Joffrey_.” She bites her lip at mention of the cruellest of the Lannister cubs and Nell thanks the gods wolf will wed rose in place of lion. “It would look well enough with the necklace Willas sent me.”

The necklace sits pride of place around the girl’s throat even now. Nell’s eyes fall on the rose gold locket as it drinks up the sun. Inside is a miniature painted in the vivid Myrish style of a comely young man with dark curls and lovely eyes. _As doe-eyed as his sister despite the thorn in his side_ … Sansa has shown it off proudly to any who will look; Nell has seen her set it beside her bed before she smooths her cheek to her pillow each night.

“Well enough,” agrees Nell, her heart happy. “Well enough, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa beams at her and tugs Jeyne by the hand. Nell sits on her cold stone bench and watches the girls take a turn about the sunken garden. The sunlight catches on half a hundred different blooms: dahlias and lilies, snowdrops and aconites. They burst and shiver in the weak sunlight, flashes of pearl and purple and yellow mixing with the dark green of the hedges. Somewhere beyond a twist in the gravelled pathway a fountain sits; Nell can hear the soft rush of the water hitting against the stone bowl. It rises to bleed with the murmur of the Blackwater crashing below the high crimson walls. Nell frowns as it grows louder, tinkling, ringing, chiming. _Like little silver bells_ …

Nell looks up as Littlefinger takes Sansa’s seat quick as a snake. A lord in the garb of a fool. His motley of yellow and blue sparkles in the sun; his velvet gloves are red as fresh blood. His eyes are glittering.

“I think I shall never tire of seeing you in your patchwork quilt, Lord Baelish,” says Nell by way of greeting. “The way the sun catches on the bells of your fool’s hat… it is a sight to see come morrow, noon, or night.”

Littlefinger dips his head at that, setting the little silver bells to ringing. He has smile on his lips; Nell mislikes the cool set of it.

“I heard a tale yester-eve when I was japing beside Moon Boy,” he says, quick and cold as his silver eyes. “Some half-drunk dolt of a man was tasked with collecting the discarded banners Tywin Lannister left behind the day he thundered into the Red Keep.” His voice is almost soft. “Dolt set about to gathering the debris in the middle bailey, bending and swooping and plucking up the seeds a host of lions had left behind for little beaks such as his.” He looks out to where Sansa and Jeyne pluck at snowdrops and dahlias. “Dolt’s work took him beneath the Tower of the Hand, amongst the shadows cast by torch and brazier. Bend and swoop and pluck, bend and swoop and pluck… A greedy little bird, this Dolt, soon he had stolen up all the seeds. He paused a moment, leant up against the stones to catch his breath, looked up to get a view of the stars arching over the Red Keep… and do you know what he saw, Lady Northwood?”

Nell meets Littlefinger’s cold silver eyes. Her throat is rung with fire, her heart gallops wild as a hunted boar against her ribs, her belly roils and pitches like a ship on stormy seas – but she sets her face as cool and calm as his. Her brows knit together as if she is puzzled, her lips quirk up, her eyes drink his.

“What did your man Dolt see, Baelish the Bold?” she asks, soft and demure as any southern lady at court.

“Why Dolt swore he saw a wolf moving up in one of the windows,” replies Littlefinger, his velvet fingers stroking at his pointed beard. “ _A wolf?!_ I said to him when he told me and I struck him for the dolt he is… but he insisted.” He shows his teeth in something like a smile. “A wolf moving up in one of the windows of the Tower of the Hand, limned like a god in the light of moon and flame, his head thrown back in a howl. And before the wolf there was something bent up and swaying… Dolt couldn’t get a clear look thanks to the shutters and the shadows but he swears he saw a handprint left upon golden glass. A little handprint leaving its mark like salt water on shore.”

_Here, my lord, for all the world to see_ … Nell hears the words soft as smoke take flame inside her head and burn up her sense in a moment. Ned was run mad by wolf blood that night when he threw caution to the wind and took her against the golden window of her little bedchamber. _Right here, my love_ … He said it as he slid inside her, stretched her, filled her, sent her senses to the same winds he’d thrown his caution to; they swirled in scent and soft heat and surrender and forgot that as they looked out through the window, others could look in. Even as her belly thrums with the heat of its memory, she curses the brazen fire of that night. She masters her eyes, watches as Littlefinger’s leap triumphant. _I’ll cut that triumph out of you as one day I’ll cut out your tongue, Petyr Baelish_.

“Lions and wolves and shadows on the wall… a tall tale, for true,” says Nell, her voice as casual as she can make it. “Though isn’t every tale tall when it is a drunk’s word taken and spun on again by a fool?” She lifts a brow and leans closer. “Tell me, Baelish the Bold, does Dolt wear as fine a motley as you?”

A little of the triumph flares from those silver eyes; Nell feels her heart swell beneath her ribs, feels the fire flood her belly and burn her throat. _I have faced worse than you_ , she wants to scream at him, _I faced Balon Greyjoy night after night when he came for me with hands of kelp, I laughed in the Drowned God’s face when I was five-and-ten, I stood still as a statue when the Kingslayer struck me with a fist of flame, I stared at eyes of emerald and saw a lioness strangled, I have sailed a sea of secrets all my life and I will sweep you up and drown you beneath the ship I ride upon_ … But she keeps silent and soft as any pretty young thing dandling in the byways of this court of blood and fire.

“Dolt wears rags, Moon Boy wears motley, I weave a patchwork quilt, my lady,” says Littlefinger. “A quilt made from whispers and shadows and secrets murmured when lords are in their cups.” His eyes glimmer in the weak sunlight. “I told you half a lie when last we met, Lady Northwood. As fool I don’t _see_ a thousand times what I saw as lord – I _hear_ a thousand times and more what I heard as master of coin.” He strokes his pointed beard with fingers of blood. “Tall tales and brothel talk, mostly – but here and there a seed worth plucking from the long grasses in which it was scattered.” He looks full at her with amusement in his gaze. “A wolf and a handprint… and a lady red of hair riding full-speed down the River Road toward the capital.” He smiles at her, cold and cruel. “A fool’s fun is only just begun, Lady Northwood.”

ლ

The Red Keep broods beneath an iron sky as Ned crosses the outer yard. A chill wind sweeps up from the Blackwater, swirls its scent of salt and smoke across the cobblestones and sets the braziers to flicker and hiss. Ned glances up at the slate-grey sky covered by scudding clouds and smells a storm. The first drops of rain fall as he passes beneath the portcullis. Full and thick they land; the bailey is soon awash with rivers of rainwater. Beneath the deep hood of his cloak, his face feels half frozen. _Autumn is here_ , he thinks, _and winter is coming_. He sets his shoulders to the rain and mounts the steps to the Tower of the Hand. The brass-fitted doors creak shut behind him as he sweeps the rain from his beard with a swipe of his hand; the soft sounds of supper rise like the rain against the stones.

A pair of alcoves flank the archway leading to the small hall, framed by thick tapestries of crimson and canary. Ned pauses as he is like to do every evenfall when he passes between them, busy spotting a new beast weaved into the hunting scenes or a face or a shadow worked with golden thread. Tonight, fingers find his from beneath a corner of crimson cloth. He starts and makes to curse, but the grip is familiar and he follows it with a backward glance to see the galley empty of foot and voice. It is dark behind the tapestry but he makes out Nell’s face in the half-light; she is pale as the moon.

“My love,” says Ned, warm and low. “You look as if you’ve seen a wraith made flesh.” His hand rises to stroke her cheek. “What is it?”

“Littlefinger,” she whispers, holding tight to his hand. “Even in motley he still has his spies and silver words.” Her eyes are fire and fury. “He told me a tall tale of a wolf and a handprint.”

Ned stares at her as if she is run mad. “A wolf and a handprint?”

“The night Tywin Lannister swore his oaths and left the city,” breathes Nell, frowning to see his bemused face. “When we fucked with a view of the Red Keep stretching before us like wine through the window, _Ned_.” His eyes light on hers. “A drunk guardsman says he saw shadows moving to and fro behind golden glass.” She bites her lip and holds his chin in her fingers. “What is the point of Varys keeping quiet if whispers escape without his heeding?” She claws at his wild beard, her eyes widening. “Your lady wife will be here in half a sennight and Baelish the Bold means to have his fun with all of us, Ned.”

Ned feels rage and fire turning his lungs to smoke. _Now_ this _is how Brandon oft felt_ , he thinks, _would that they had never called first blood till Brandon had stuck his sword through Littlefinger’s silver heart_. He runs his hand through the black silk of Nell’s hair and kisses her, soft and slow until he feels the tension flood from her like the rainwater without. She gives a little whimper and clutches at the collar of his doublet, drinking him in as she looks at him with eyes wild as the sea. He sweeps her into his embrace and presses her back against the wall, feathering her jaw with kisses. She tips back her head and grips at his shoulders, her legs a crush around his waist.

“Littlefinger forgets one thing,” whispers Ned, blazing a trail of fire down her throat. “There are no lions left at court for whom he can dance his bidding.” He lifts the silver chain about her neck between his teeth and pulls gently; she mewls and shuffles in his arms as he sets down the chain and takes her lips. “There is only stag and spider and wolf, my love. A wild, _wild_ wolf.” He dents her lip with his teeth and looks full at her with eyes so dark they look black in the half-light. He smooths the hair back from her brow, soft for a moment before his growl sounds edged with ice. “Let a fool have his fun, Nell Northwood – if he moves to hurt you, I’ll have his heart.”

She moans at that, her mouth sinking on his, taking his hand to pull it down her throat. Her thighs spread wide to rock against his hips. “Eddard Stark,” she whispers, her eyes ice and fire on his. “Gods, I want you inside me, here, now… _please_.” He smiles at her and runs his fingers down the column of her throat, chuckles at her low whine.

“They will miss us at dinner, my love,” he murmurs, shouldering his own ache as she slides down his body and lands softly on her feet. “We will play our parts as we always do: lord and handmaid.” He knots his hands into the gown at her hips and pulls her to him roughly. “But after dark we’ll be as we are meant to be: ice and iron, salt and snow, wolf and ward.” He takes her lips for a final kiss. “I promise.”

ლ

The small hall is a fire-glow of warmth and laughter. Dinner was carried off hours ago but still the Hand’s household remain at the trestle tables of ash, a hundred voices rising to swell amongst the rafters. The guards are a rush of happiness this eve: they clank tankards and call for more. Ned sits the lord’s chair with an easy smile, his eyes creasing at the corners as he listens to one of Jory’s tall tales. Nell watches him with love fierce as fire in her heart. _I never knew what it was to feel safe before the lord of white and grey saved me from the Drowned God’s grip_ , she thinks with joy dappling her eyes. Even now with silver words and spies flitting around them thick as the rain without, that sense of shelter she feels in Ned’s arms has never left her. She thinks of his palm on her belly when words of mint and moon tea whirled like a storm around them. _In another life, but not this one_ …

One of the guards has begun a steady beat against the table; the drumming fills the small hall with sound. They clamour for pipe and lyre and song till half a hundred of them take up the beat of palm on ash. They stamp their feet and clap their hands and soon the small hall is a chorus of pleas, the rough sound rising to brush with the rain against the rafters. Nell turns from her thoughts and laughs to see them all so demanding.

“Will you sing, Nell?” pipes Arya from her seat, joining the drumming with her little hands. The torchlight glows on her garland of dragon’s breath and bellflowers and meadowsweets half-wilted but stubbornly set on the sleek dark head. “Oh, _please_ , Nellie, will you sing your mermaid song?”

“You know as well as me that I can’t sing the mermaid’s tale alone, Arya Stark,” protests Nell, even as Arya tugs at her skirts and Sansa giggles like a girl in springtime. “It is a song of smoke and silver… I have only the silver, little one.”

“Father sang it with you once at harvest-time when most had gone to bed,” charges Arya, grinning. “I remember it – years ago, but you had a crown of wildflowers in your hair and the Greatjon broke his fingers trying to get at your bodice!”

There is a roar of laughter at that and the drumming gets louder.

“Arya Stark,” warns Ned, but his voice is warm and full of laughter as he surveys the sea of expectant faces shimmering before the lord’s chair. He raises a brow at Nell and gives her a half-smile. “Very well, we will cheer your night with song… just this once.”

They all grin then: Arya and Sansa and Jeyne and Jory’s men. Ned and Nell make their way to a pair of ebony stools set at the head of the trestle table. She holds her silver-stringed lyre in her lap whilst Alyn plucks at his cittern from behind his trencher. Harwin gives a soft count and then their music rises together: string and wood, fire and smoke, mournful yet merry. Nell flashes Ned a glance and begins her song.

“ _High are the daunting waves_

_And bold the wind it blows_

_And I can see love, the mermaid and she knows_

_On the sea love, on the sea_.”

Ned watches her sing with mastered eyes, but the fire is strong and thick between them. He sees now why men call her songstress and siren. Here, in the glow of flame and shadow, she is a goddess of the harp, her shoulders bare, her lips full and soft, her voice lilting and sweet. Their eyes meet and she knows in an instant he will always make good on promises spoken within alcoves and without; she knows it as she knows the rhythm of her own heartbeat – and she loves him for it. They sing together now, smoke and silver.

“ _And peace as the sea it comes_

_And peace now in her arms_

_Where are we love?_

_Sleeping in the sea_.”

Jory leads the cheer to hear Ned’s rough smoke join Nell’s song of silver. The girls are beside themselves, clapping and giggling as if they have sunk half a dozen cups of wine. Harwin sweeps up Sansa in a dance and Alyn makes merry steps with Jeyne, plucking his cittern as he swirls and skips. They whirl in floods of silk skirts and grey-white cloaks across the fire-glow of torches, their shadows dancing with their feet across the flagstones. The small hall is alive with song and sound; laughter and lyre ring out across the outer yard. Arya takes Ned’s hand and leads him to spin her around the floor as Nell sings her silver song.

“ _My father built a bonny ship_

_And set her on the sea_

_It was his joy love, he gave that ship to me_

_On the sea love, on the sea_.”

Nell watches them all spinning and dancing and falling over from laughter. She watches the light shine true in the eyes of the guards, each and every, hears the rough timbre of northmen taking up the song. Sansa is a swirl of velvet blush and green silk as she dances with Harwin and Arya clings onto Ned’s forearms and screams as he spins her upside down. Soon their voices rise together, smoke and silver, girl and guard, wolf and ward.

“ _And three times the ship went round_

_And three times round went she_

_Its murky deep love, and far away from ye_

_On the sea love, on the sea_.”

Ned’s eyes meet with Nell’s as he swings and steps about the flagstones and she feels him swirl like smoke within her ribs. _In another life_ … She watches the light tarry and explode in his eyes, sees the knowing smile on his lips and feels heat surge between her legs, feels fire at her wrists and throat to think of that smile glancing along the skin of her neck this night. He feels it too, she can tell; his eyes darken, and his brow furrows and he wants her in an instant. _Or in this one?_ Their song surges stronger still.

“ _And peace now the sea it comes_

_And peace now in her arms_

_Where are we love?_

_Sleeping in the sea_

_It’s where I’ll be love_

_Sleeping in the sea_.”

They are laughing and singing and plucking strings still as the doors to the small hall are thrown open. A wind blows up from the yard without and the rain-swept darkness of the night hisses out the torches flanking the oaken doors. Their merriment and music fades abruptly as a figure sweeps in, wrapped in an elegant cloak with the hood pulled deep. Nell rises from her ebony stool, the lyre dangling from her fingers, the song dying on her lips, unease swirling bitter as wormwood in her belly.

“Who goes there?” calls Ned, his voice a whiplash in the air.

The hood of the cloak is thrown back to show a collar of blue velvet beneath. Hair red as flame shines in the guttering torchlight.

“Husband,” says Catelyn Stark, moving up toward them all. “Pray don’t stop your music on my account.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Verses lifted from Kate Rusby’s beautiful song _The Mermaid_.  
> 2\. Wolf prowls, fool’s bells chime, and a storm sweeps in from the River Road… will they weather it or be destroyed by it?


	10. Wingbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Rivers of rainwater turn to ice overnight. Slipshod and shivering, gold cloaks step gingerly along curtain wall and cobblestone; once or twice there is a tumble and a cry as feet skate and heads crack. Nell moves as a shadow in the middle bailey, her boots sliding soundlessly across shiny cobbles, her ebony hair hidden beneath the hood of her heavy cloak. She walks swift and sure, passing beneath the fangs of the portcullis and crossing the outer yard to slip through the postern gate in the northern wall. _I am a shadow again_ , she thinks grimly, _a shadow set upon the twists of Shadowblack Lane_ …

Nell is cold beneath her layers of wool and velvet; she shivers into her hood. In truth she has been cold since a storm swept in with the rain yester-eve and put out joy as easily as it guttered out the torches of the small hall. _Half a sennight, it was supposed to be half a sennight_ … She turns with the twists of Shadowblack Lane. A few lamps are still flickering at street-corners as are a handful of lanterns strung on lead chains above doorways and window arches. Fireflame dapples with weak sunlight to filter past gabled rooftops and leaning houses; icy cobbles and puddles are limned to honey. _A shadow set upon a street of gold, is that the way of it now?_ Her step stays sure as she vies down a sidestreet and shoulders her cloak with a shudder. Here, the stone-and-timber houses lean so close as to look like lovers caught between kisses. _Ugly lovers_ , she thinks with a scowl, _yet at least they love in daylight_. Shadows and alcoves and stolen kisses in the godswood, that is the life Nell has lived for near ten years and it is a life she has never found the fire to resent. _Whore and harlot and heathen, how could I resent the path I set myself on?_ Yet some flint has struck to flame in her belly this past year. _Mine and Ned’s both_ … They moved hungrier, bolder, braver – until the storm swept in with the rain.

There was scarce a murmur as Catelyn Stark strode between the trestle tables, the cold night blowing rain and wind against her back. Sansa simpered and smiled, Arya scowled, Nell shook and Ned… _Oh, Ned_. He stood looking near as pale as if it was Cersei Lannister risen from the dead coming for his throat. Lord and lady wife stared at each other like strangers, shared an embrace as stilted as if they were newlyweds, and groped for words to fill the silence. The Hand’s household watched as uncomfortable as mummers at a funeral, filing out as soon as was polite. Nell went to bed with shame in her belly that her lady’s homecoming was not one to share in the warmth and laughter that had lit the small hall not a moment before. _Mayhap it found a different sort of warmth in the lord’s bedchamber_ … The thought pitches her heart wild as a storm-tossed ship but she scolds herself and sets her face. _Whore and harlot and heathen, that is all you are, Nell Northwood_. She has no right to jealousy and resentment – not when it is a cloak of shame and secrets that covers the crooks of her heart.

The city is waking as she ventures halfway down a sidestreet narrower than the last. She steps deftly around night soil left to spill and drip upon the icy cobbles, her hands catching at her hips and hefting her skirts a little higher. _A shadow set upon a street of shit, is that the way of it now?_ Craftsmen pass her, boys with buckets, women with arms stained to the elbow by dye, men with hands black as soot, merchants and washerwomen and girls clutching baskets, wizened old crones hawking out fortunes and fair prices, dogs and cats and mewling kittens fighting over scraps with pigeons. Nell moves as easy here in the belly of King’s Landing as she does amongst the dancing lords around its teeth. She keeps her face hidden within the folds of her hood even as she looks at each person that passes her. She wonders what they think of stag and wolf and lion – wonders if they’d care if one took the other’s throat and claimed keep and kingdom with tooth and claw. She thinks not. _They are what I am, shadows upon a street of shit trying to make wingbeat in this game of thrones_.

The sun is warming the ice of the cobblestones by the time Nell turns back up Shadowblack Lane with a bluestone vial rolling in the pocket of her gown. _Mayhap men are right to call me whore and harlot and siren – but I am a handmaid second, and a woman first_. She fingers the smooth stone of the vial in her pocket and worries at her lip. _Love is a poison_. Cersei Lannister spoke true that night in the shadows of Baelor’s sept; her words are a swirl of red-and-gold in Nell’s head now as she slips toward the postern gate. _A sweet poison – but it will kill you all the same_. Nell tasted its sweetness as full as her stupidity yester-eve when she looked at Ned in the firelit glow of the small hall and fancied she could take up the promise he’d spoken in the shadows after Robert’s wedding feast. _No more moon tea… I’d be fool as well as whore_. The bluestone vial lies dormant in her pocket for now yet it will rise like a dove to her lips should she need it. One look at Catelyn Stark’s flashing sapphire eyes reminded her of a promise she made to herself half a lifetime ago. She grips hard to the bluestone vial and knows she will never forget that promise again.

ლ

Ned breaks his fast with the king. The solar in which they sit is a bolt of warmth and fireflame; outside the world is still half-ice. Ned’s eyes rest on the tall windows that ring the eastern wall, blinking a little at the depth of white light shimmering through the leaded glass. Hard frost still sits the rooftops of the Red Keep and turns the shadows of tower and turret to silver flame. _But the storm has come_ , thinks Ned, _storm of rain and riverwater, bringing my lady wife with it_. Cat was ever that frosty only on their wedding day when they were strangers standing in the rainbow light of Riverrun’s sept. Yet even that day, they found some warmth in oath and cloak and kiss; yester-eve she greeted him cool and crisp as a septa and saved her kisses for the girls. Ned sits and broods as he breaks black bread and bacon with the king.

“I hear tell your lady wife arrives well in time for the wedding,” says Robert, tapping at the table with his eating-knife. “Turned up King’s Gate with a face so surly she sent half my gold cloaks scurrying for the nearest sally port.” His smile shows white beneath the black beard. “I’ve oft thought she could match a septa for withering looks – the gods know, I’ve felt half a hundred of those looks myself.”

“Cat has sat her father’s sickbed for half a year,” replies Ned evenly. “Watched our son play at war through the window of her old bedchamber.” He sets his bread down and leans back in his chair. “Mayhap it has stirred up memories of a time long forgot.” He meets the king’s storm-blue eyes. “Battle has oft been a bitter draught for the women left behind to swallow.”

Robert reads the guilt in Ned’s eyes in an instant; he grunts and raps his knife a little louder against the grains of ebony. “It was war, Ned,” he says roughly. “After a fight what choice does a man have but to fill his belly and wet his cock?” He pulls at his beard. “A handful of seeds take root for every hundred planted – call it luck or curse or the will of the gods.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Bugger discipline and formation and training, it is a man’s instincts that save him in the heat of battle. Why should he live his life under a storm of shame for following the very instincts that _saved_ him?”

“And if he continues to follow them?” says Ned. “What then, Robert?”

Robert leans to rest his elbows on the table, pointing his knife in Ned’s direction with sincerity lighting his storm-blue eyes. “I know only one thing, Ned Stark,” he says lowly. “You followed your instincts the day you plucked her from Balon Greyjoy’s bed. Call it wolf blood or wise cunning or any such thing – you followed it. Brought her home, set her up as ward in Winterfell, you never meant to have her no more than you’d ever seek to have harmed her.” He leans back and smiles knowingly. “Yet if you had ignored those instincts that day, you’d not be sat here to be shamed by them.” The smile vanishes. “You’d be a head on Traitor’s Walk – and I’d be grinning up there beside you.” He lifts his cup. “Call it luck or curse or the will of the gods, Ned Stark, the handmaid saved us all and I for one will not be shamed by it.”

“You speak true enough,” rumbles Ned, glancing out to the frosty rooftops limned yellow by the sun. “I never meant to have her. I only meant to save her from the man who left her marked by bruise and welt.” He worries at his lip. “But I should have known, Robert… that day I lifted her from the Drowned God’s grip, I should have known the storm of her taking would follow us home to take root beside the weirwood.” He looks at his hands, rough-shod and trembling upon the table. “I _felt_ it, Robert.”

“Felt what, Ned?” asks Robert.

Ned meets his eyes and each are troubled as the other’s as his voice rises heavy from his throat. “Calm,” he murmurs. “I felt calm wash over me as strong as the sea at my feet. That night she sang in Balon Greyjoy’s hall for your victory feast… it was the first night I forgot about war and smoke and rubies in the Trident, just for the time of a silver song.” _And stolen sisters and rose petals and oaths of violet storm_ … Ned shudders. “She makes me wild as Brandon sometimes, makes me stalk as a wolf, makes me want to rip and take and gut… Yet, always, _always_ there is calm when I am with her.”

“I’ve sought that calm in every cunt along the Street of Silk, Ned,” says Robert gruffly, but his eyes sparkle above his beard. “It’s a rare enough thing to find. A man should not be shamed once he has found it.”

Ned shakes his head and gives a low sigh. “I am not shamed to have found it, Robert,” he says. “I am not shamed to have kept it for near ten years.” His eyes flash in the sunlight leaking through the leaded glass. “I am shamed because I feel no shame, Robert.”

“She is a rare woman to have kept your heart, Ned Stark,” murmurs Robert. “There is no shame in that, not ten years past and not now, old friend.”

Ned leaves the king’s solar with a belly warm from food and friendship. He reflects on their conversation as he emerges from Maegor’s and crosses toward the serpentine steps. _How can there be shame?_ His step is sure and swift as he looks up halfway across the lower bailey and watches the sun catch on melting frost limning the pale crimson walls. _Shame did not save my skin - she did_. Nell is silver light and fireflame and meadowsweets and _life_ , she is a calming balm, and the flint that strikes fire in his heart. _Hearth and home and heart tree – she is all three to me_... He sets his shoulders and pauses at the foot of the serpentine steps and wants nothing more than her little hand smoothing the hair back from his brow, her blue-grey eyes alight with laughter on his.

“ _The northman’s wife was fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring_ ,” comes a sing-song voice from the serpentine steps. “ _But the northman’s blade was made of black steel, and its kiss was a terrible thing_.” Littlefinger skips the last of the steps with a rattle of his silver bells and a smile cool and quick. “ _The northman’s wife would sing as she bathed, in a voice that was sweet as a peach_.” His eyes glint in the sunlight. “ _But the northman’s blade was elsewhere stuck deep, pressed against golden glass like a leech_.” His song dies off and he steps into Ned’s shadow with triumph lighting his silver eyes. “I gave up trying to rhyme wolf and ward, Lord Stark. You’d think they’d fit well together… well, mayhap they fit well together in _some_ senses, but to rhyme they twist and slip from each other like oiled lovers – ”

Ned takes great pleasure in the strangled cry that rises from Littlefinger’s throat as a warrior’s hand clenches tight around his neck and throws him up against the curtain wall. His eyes are silver with panic now as Ned squeezes his thumb against the bobbing gullet and leans down to level with the fool’s contorted face.

“You’re a funny man, eh?” rasps Ned, a white smile lifting from behind his black beard. “A very funny man.” He tightens his grip on the fool’s throat and chuckles roughly. “The gods know it – else you’d never have been made a fool.” He releases his iron grip and sends Littlefinger reeling to the dirt, clutching at his throat and coughing. “Keep to your japes and your jests, Baelish, leave my household well alone, and I may let you live as my brother did all those years ago.”

Ned steps over the crumpled fool with the lithe grace of a wolf. _No more shame_ , he thinks as he mounts the serpentine steps, _and no more silver threats_. He feels the icy air fill his lungs as he stretches his shoulders beneath the heavy cloak, sets his step as sure and strong as a warrior’s sounding the beat of battle. _Mockingbird is made to ash and bone, and wolf rises with blood on his teeth_. He walks with an easy smile on his face to hear the choking and retching continue at the foot of the serpentine steps.

ლ

The Queen’s Ballroom is a storm of silver and fireflame. Trestle tables of ebony run the length of it; the same dark wood panels the walls, richly-carved and accented with gold and silver strokes. It is half the size of the small hall, but twice as grand. Nell sits demure as the dozen ladies spaced around the central table, her soft grey skirts spilling like heavy water to the sweet-smelling rushes underfoot. Sansa sits beside her, her cheeks a velvet blush above her gown of rosewood silk. Catelyn Stark perches opposite her daughter, sparks of candleflame limning the trout worked in silver thread leaping up her sleeves of blue damask. She wears the smile she hoists whenever in polite company: cool and sharp as her blue Tully eyes. _My lady sits displeased_ , thinks Nell as her gaze wanders from Catelyn to the wizened white-haired woman at the head of the table.

Nell was late in coming to Queen Margaery’s supper, due in part to her icy walk along Shadowblack Lane – and the spider she met upon it. She was midway through the postern gate when a soft hand closed on her elbow, drawing her beneath an archway in a cloud of perfume and powder. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. Varys whispered words of wingbeat in her ear that make her frown even now. _Silver hair, violet eyes, Essos, three dragons of different shades_ … Nell looked at him as if he were run half-mad, but the master of whisperers only shrugged, spread his hands and warned of the stag’s rage that would shortly follow the small council held this evenfall. _Let the wolf temper the stag’s rage_ , thinks Nell as she lifts her cup, _salt water is tired unto death of swirling as balm to bad news – be it wingbeat or winter’s coming_. Nell has rages of her own to temper. She swept in late to the supper and as Catelyn made to introduce her to the roses sat around the table, the Queen of Thorns shuffled in her chair and called her to silence.

“Yes, yes,” cried Olenna Tyrell, waving her ringed fingers. “Your handmaid and I are already well-met, isn’t that right, Lady Northwood?” She beckoned her and patted Nell’s sleeve with a soft spotted hand. “Firm friends, aren’t we, child?”

The ice in Catelyn’s blue Tully eyes has still not thawed; she sits stiff and wooden, gnawing delicately at roast boar and steamed leeks. Nell avoids her gaze and swirls the wine around her cup. She watches Sansa instead, glad to see that the girl is all smiles and soft looks as she giggles with Margaery. The boar and leeks are borne away; plates piled high with lemon cakes are set down in their stead. Nell feels a hand on her sleeve and turns to find sharp brown eyes staring at her.

“We were told lemon cakes are Sansa’s favourite,” says Olenna, quirking her thin white brows. “That Varys creature seemed to think we should be grateful for the information. I’ve never been quite sure what the _point_ of a eunuch is, if truth be told.” Her brown eyes sparkle. “It seems to me they’re only men with the useful bits cut off.” Her fingers press a little tighter. “Though, well enough, those bits can oft chase good men into trouble, Lady Northwood.” She draws back from Nell’s ear and gives Catelyn a toothless smile. “I knew your daughter’s grandfather, Lord Rickard, though not well.”

“He died before she was born,” says Catelyn carefully.

“I am aware of that, Lady Stark,” replies Olenna, releasing Nell’s arm. “It’s said that her Tully grandfather is dying, too. Lord Hoster, surely you have told her? An old man, your father, though not so old as me. Still, night falls for all of us in the end, and too soon for some.” She gives another grim smile. “Your lord husband knows that more than most. He has had his fair share of grief: sister stolen, one brother murdered, one brother vanished, father melted in his own plate and – ”

“ _Mother_ ,” scolds Lady Alerie with wide eyes.

“Hush, Alerie,” charges Olenna. “Don’t take that tone with me – and don’t call me Mother. If I’d given birth to you, I’m sure I’d remember. I’m only to blame for your husband, the lord oaf of Highgarden.”

“Grandmother, mind your words,” says Margaery gently. “Or what will Sansa and her lady mother think of us?”

It goes on even as the lemon cakes are turned to crumbs and carried off to make room for cheese and summerwine. Moonlight adds to the storm of silver and fireflame illuminating the Queen’s Ballroom as rose and thorn alike trade tussles and tattle-tales with wolf and trout. Nell sits demure and quiet, her eyes on the oranges that Butterbumps is juggling. _Would that all fools were as he is_ , she thinks, _honest in their motley – and not weaving patchwork quilts of silver words gleaned from spies_. Nell watches her lady now sat still and cold as ice in a gown that matches her blue Tully eyes; the face above is mirthless and miserable. _A wolf and a handprint and a lady red of hair, all assembled for the fool to have his fun_ … Catelyn meets her eyes for a moment and gives her the smallest of smiles. Nell feels pity bleed with guilt in her bones: a feeling she grew used to bearing amongst the grey stones of Winterfell, a feeling she has forgotten with the freedom this city of blood and fire grants her heart. It swirls in her ribs like smoke now and she fights the urge to hawk it up to banish like bile from her mouth. A soft hand finds hers as Catelyn’s icy gaze slides to tarry on Lady Alerie.

“She doesn’t sit snug as a mother, nor bow-legged like a whore,” murmurs Olenna as Nell turns to face her. “She sits wretched as a widow.” Those sharp brown eyes glint in the twin flames of fireflame and silver. “Methinks she would much rather be sat at her father’s sickbed than share the same pillows as her lord husband.”

“My lady loves her lord husband,” whispers Nell, duty dashing with dishonour in her heart. “They have been married fifteen years.”

“Years count for nothing in matters of the heart,” says Olenna, narrowing her sharp brown eyes. “Else after a year apart, Lady Catelyn would be eager as a new-shorn sheep to hide beneath her husband’s furs.” She tweaks Nell’s fingers with her soft spotted hand. “Your lady is changed, child, some of the north has leeched from her since she stepped foot back into the place she was born. True enough, she sits as ice and bristles like a bear to hear me speak of dead fathers and oafish husbands… but she’s no more wolf than I am lion.” Those brown eyes glow in the candlelight. “The red-brown mud of Riverrun welcomes her home and the gods know she was never happy to leave it.” Olenna appraises Nell and smiles softly to see the fire in her eyes. “You _are_ a good little handmaid, aren’t you? Even now when an old woman speaks true, you grope to find salt water to temper flames of fact. Fierce and loyal as the wolf that runs by your side.”

Nell shifts in her seat and feels colour rise in her cheeks. _A wolf and a handprint and a lady red of hair_ … Catelyn watches impassively from her chair as Butterbumps drops his oranges and blows seeds from his nose. _All assembled for the fool to have his fun_. Silver eyes and cool smiles rise to twist like sunlight before Nell’s gaze now. She thinks of the leap of triumph in Littlefinger’s stare as he spun his tale of lions and wolves and shadows, the little silver bells on his fool’s hat chiming soft as the water hitting the fountain bowl. She thinks of the promise she made to Catelyn in that buckling whorehouse the day they arrived in King’s Landing, a promise to keep her daughters safe from the flames that sought to harm them. _I have, my lady, and I always will_ , thinks Nell wretchedly, _but this is a fire of my own making that would harm them if a fool has his fun_. Duty dashes with dishonour; sadness clouds her eyes like smoke.

“A good little handmaid,” repeats Nell, bitterness curling her words low and quick. “Can a whore truly be called so?”

The Queen of Thorns raises her thin white brows at that and digs her varnished nails into Nell’s hand. “You spoke true that day we stood forbidden entry to the sept,” she says, her sharp brown eyes seeking stormy-blue stare. “We are each of us much the same, be we mother, widow, whore, wife, maiden, queen, _handmaid_ …” She rolls her free hand, the rings of gold-and-emerald sparkling in the fireflame. “Each of us pays the other’s price for a man’s love – and all men are fools.” She smiles now, soft and sweet as the rosewater peppering her silken throat. “What does that make us, Lady Northwood? Are we the greater fool or the lesser to love the motley of men?” She shakes her head and sighs. “It makes no matter. I’ll call you as I see you, child, and that is a good little handmaid who serves her house well.” She meets Nell’s eyes and narrows her own. “If king or lord or fool calls you any different… well, there will be a place at Highgarden for a handmaid of the salt winds if ever she should need it.”

ლ

After a day spent with roses and kings, wolf and ward come together as shadows slip across the moon. The Tower of the Hand is cold and quiet; the red-warm room halfway up its twisted stair glows with fireflame and spice. She is candlewax, melting, dripping, slipping. The flagstones of her bedchamber are hard comfort to her forearms as she leans heavily on them and arches her back. A heavy hand rests across her spine, a rough thumb stroking circles into the plump flesh at its base; fingers tangle in the black silk of her hair, wrap tendrils round till they shine bright as rings, yank a gentle threat that dizzies her scalp and skull. _Warrior’s hands_. Her breath is a soft moan as she rolls her neck in his grasp and meets his hips to feel him slide back into her, slow and deep and full. She shudders and stretches, luxuriating in his hands on her skin.

“All day I have played the lady,” murmurs Nell, rolling her hips as she rolled her neck, pressing heavier onto the flagstones. “Drunk tea and eaten lemon cake… _Ned_.” She breaks off to whimper and pant. “Cooed with birds of red and green feathers.” Pulses of fire rock from her womb to her belly and she bites her lip to stop from crying out. “All day I’ve wanted my wolf to scatter the hens and take me like he promised he would after dark.” Her voice is a breathy whine; she bites her forearm and presses her cheek flush against the cool flagstone. “He makes good that promise now.”

“A Stark of Winterfell always keeps his word,” growls Ned, his great hands roving to grip at her hips, his fingers leaving white-hot marks in the soft flesh. _No more shame_. He pulls out of her as she is close and smiles to himself at the pitiful mewl she makes. _No more silver threats_. In a breath, she is on her back amongst the furs and flagstones, her eyes dream-drunk and hazy on his as he spreads her thighs and presses inside her again. “And a wolf is always hungry.” He marks her throat with his teeth.

She tilts back her head and moans, her hair a cloud of ink bleeding with the bearskin before the fire. He looks down at her stretched beneath him, fireflame limning every rib and rise of her body in soft orange light; it catches her eyes and turns them to stars as she rolls her head back to stare up at him. He sinks his mouth on hers then, drinks her taste like a starving man. Words of wingbeat and king’s wrath stir to smoke in his head; he shuts his eyes and moves inside her harder, chasing them away with every stroke of his hips.

_King plotted to murder babes in the womb half a year ago, yet now those babes have wings_ …

Ned groans and turns his face to Nell’s shoulder, breathes her scent of wildflowers and winter, and fights to blot out the threat of wingbeat rising like wildfire to the east.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _The northman’s wife_ … obviously a bastardised version of _The Dornishman’s Wife_ re-imagined to fit with the plot-line of this fic.  
> 2\. _You’re a funny man_ … inspired by one of the rare and delightful snippets of _Game of Thrones_ that I’ve actually seen: Ned choking Littlefinger outside the brothel (S1E3).  
> 3\. _So we’ve been told_ … lifted (and adapted amongst other parts of the conversation) from the Tyrell tea in _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 6: Sansa I.  
> 4\. River flows listless, mockingbird gets his feathers ruffled, a thorn extends a branch to salt water, and wingbeat stirs in the east… all before rose and wolf are wed.


	11. Shades of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Ned sits his solar late. The aches of the day rest heavy on him as the leaden sky blazing scarlet starlight across the towers and turrets of the Red Keep. He feels weary to his bones; the swell of calm fading as quick as the heat of the hands that smoothed it upon his skin. He stayed in that red-warm room till Nell fell to soft sleep. _Should have left with the shape of her still warm in my hands_ , he thinks, _left sleep to those who don’t dream_. Yet he tarried, lay for a moment beside her on the little red-curtained bed and was lulled to sleep by the familiar heat of her back against his chest, the murmurs she made like song as she slept. Deep and dreamless it began; it ended in a storm of smoke and blood and violet eyes.

 _Wedding vows and winter roses_. Ned worries at his lip and broods out at the city spilling like dark wine through the leaded glass of his window. _Wingbeat and wildfire_. His dreams are cursed to sound and fury, whilst in day they stay quiet as a whisper in the threads around his heart. It began as the old dream: seven facing three before a half-crumbled tower, a bed of blood, rose petals swirling across a red-streaked sky. _A dream of red and white and black_. Solemn eyes rose to meet his in the half-light of the tower: eyes so dark they burst like purple flowers in the shadows. Then wings unfurled beyond the violet eyes, scales of green and bronze shimmering like autumn flowers. _Promise me, Ned_. Flames soared and wingbeat sounded strong as storm and Ned woke with a whimper in the little red-curtained bed. He can smell it even now: the scent of blood and roses and smoke. He rises restless as the moon without and climbs to his bedchamber.

His lady wife curls like a cat in his bed, the moonlight playing on her rich red hair as her shoulders rise and fall in the soft breath of sleep. He sees lines on her face that were not there half a year ago; strands of silver pepper her brow in the moon-glow. _Black and white and grey_ , thinks Ned, _all the shades of truth_. He sits on the window seat and wants nothing more than to run from the lord’s chamber and return to the red-warm room where his love could sooth the sting of dreams from him in her little bed of crimson curtains. Even as he thinks it, he feels shame flood full and thick in his heart. _No more shame… would that it was so easy_. His eyes fall on the bed again and he softens for a moment thinking of the life they have shared, the children, the joy. She is a good woman true, strong and clever and dutiful – but not without her cruelties. He thinks of Jon Snow then, his black-haired boy, and the softness fades sharp as steel to tarry with the smoke of his dream.

“My lord,” comes Cat’s voice from the bed. She blinks at him with eyes of sapphire, set icy in the moonlight. “You look so sad sitting there.”

“I was thinking of my son,” says Ned and she smiles. “I was looking out over the city and thinking of the view he must be having on top of the Wall.”

The smile freezes on her face; she is hard as ice in an instant, sitting up against the pillows and staring out with eyes of frost. “What of your trueborn sons, my lord?” Her voice is a dagger in the dark. “What of Robb and Bran and Rickon? Do you think of them as you sit cold as snow beside your marital bed?”

“I know that they are safe – and _loved_.” His voice is barbed now. “Jon moves in a man’s world whilst the others still have their mother’s skirts to hide behind should they spook or stumble.” He runs a hand over his wild black beard, suddenly weary as he meets her eyes. “I worry for him, Cat, as any father worries for his children.”

“Last I heard, your bastard was ranging beyond the Wall,” says Cat, her voice a whiplash. “Mayhap he won’t come back.”

A stony silence fills the lord’s chamber now. Ned feels as though she has drawn the dagger from her voice and struck his heart. The fire of his dream threatens to storm his vision now: red and white and black, rose petals, blood, smoke, violet eyes, wings of autumn flowers. _Promise me, Ned_ … He wants to shake and shout, but he holds firm.

“He will,” says Ned softly. “I know he will even as you wish he won’t.” He turns to gaze out of the window, looking at the city limned yellow by the leaded glass. “Robert once got a pair of babes on a serving girl at Casterly Rock.” His voice is ice. “Cersei Lannister had the twins dashed against a wall and sold their mother to a passing slaver.” The lights of hearth and home twinkle like a thousand stars across King’s Landing. _Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth_ … “I am no fool, Cat, you were as good as you had to be. You gave the boy hearth and home but denied him the most important thing of all: heart.”

“Why should I have given him anything, Ned?” spits Catelyn, shivering as the covers slip from her shoulders and moonlight strikes her pale skin to silver. “He was a stain on your honour, a blot on your name – ”

“He was a _babe_ , Catelyn!” thunders Ned, sudden and sharp as a storm. “He was a _boy_ – and you made him a stranger and a shadow.” He feels anger pulse like fire in his head and make his tongue loose. “Small wonder he called Nell _mother_ till he was ten-and-two.” His brow is shot-through with a deep frown. “It was all he ever wanted, Catelyn, a soft smile and a gentle hand. You stopped him having even that.”

A memory drifts soft and sweet as snowflakes before his eyes: a girl of salt and storm gripping the plump hand of a black-haired boy with solemn eyes, his face a smile to hear her lilting lullaby. Catelyn’s voice tears through it.

“So two strays ran thick as thieves together for a time,” she snaps. “Nell was not at Winterfell to play nursemaid to bastards. She was – she _is_ my handmaid and not a shepherd of lost sheep.” Her eyes flare cold and cruel. “Small wonder _she_ was not brought to me great with another of your bastards borne of war and sin. A pity, really – your half-blood wolf pup would’ve had a littermate.”

Ned feels the air go from his lungs.

“You are terrible,” he says hoarsely, ice making his throat tight. “Catelyn, you are terrible.”

“I am what fate has made me, Ned,” says Catelyn, unflinching in the face of his quiet fury. “The day my lord husband returned from war with a whore’s whelp in his arms, my heart froze hard as the ice of my adopted home.” Her eyes are blue flame in the dark. “I am what _you_ made me, Ned Stark.”

ლ

The small hall feels tense as a bear-pit when they sit to break their fast. Lord and lady wife perch opposite each other, heads reared back like striking vipers. Nell watches them with worry in her gaze. Theirs was a marriage bound by politics and promises, for true, but never have they bandied looks of ice and fire as they do this morrow. Sansa and Arya have turned solemn eyes to Nell, peeking over their plates and clutching at their silver cups. The silent storm rages on; the hall feels as cold as if the fire is burnt to embers. It roars thick and fierce, scarlet rags sending smoke up through the chimney. Nell thinks of words whispered on the crook of Shadowblack Lane as she watches it flicker and dance. _Words of wingbeat and wildfire and a king’s wrath come evenfall_ … The whispers spread like smoke over the Red Keep as the castle slept: the three-headed dragon rises born-again in the east. _Mayhap that is what worries him_ , thinks Nell as she looks at Ned through her lashes, _threats of unrest should a queen return to take her throne_. She feels more like a shadow moving amongst thousands on a street of shit than ever.

Her thoughts are broken by the thunder of Ned’s voice as he hefts a sheaf of paper into the air and rattles it. Nell spots a broken seal: bleeding wax of red-and-blue. Catelyn looks at it dispassionately.

“You did not think to tell me?” storms Ned, setting the letter down as his hand balls to a fist. “A moon’s turn since Tywin Lannister bent the knee and sent summons for his sons.” He works his jaw, the wild black beard bobbing against his throat. “You did not think to tell me that Jaime Lannister has been in a turret cell at Riverrun for most that time?” He slams his palm down onto the trestle table and his daughters start to see him so. “Worry for Robb has stolen sleep from me and dogged my days for half a year, worry for him as he parried against golden sword – you did not think to tell me the danger he faced was disarmed and lodged in the _same_ castle keep you sat?”

Catelyn stares at him with eyes of ice. “What care have you for a trueborn son?” she asks venomously. “The gods know you are oft too busy brooding over your bastard to even chance your children with a glance.” She speaks the words coolly, even as every soul sat about the small hall knows them to be an injustice. “Since I have been home amongst the red-brown mud of Riverrun, I have seen things I was long blinded to.” She raps her own hand against the ashwood and snarls. “I gave up all and everything that day we wed in the sept. I gave up home and hearth and family. I left my father to grow weaker and sicker, only returned to him now he has no memory of my face.” Tears are heavy in her throat now, Nell can hear them, but still she storms. “And what did I get in return, my lord? What did I get for being a dutiful, obedient, mild-mannered wife?” Her throat cracks now and tears glisten on her cheeks. “I got a lord husband who dishonoured me. I got a bastard put into my house – a bastard I was forced to watch grow into a copy of his father!” She masters her face and lets her voice slip quick and cold as riverwater. “You speak of hearth and home and heart, what care have you for any?” She rises from her seat as her voice rises to a shout. “If you had jot or dash of care, you’d have answered my questions fifteen years past, you’d have told me which whore whelped your black-haired boy!”

“Jon is my blood,” says Ned coolly. “That is all you need to know, my lady.” He looks from his lady wife to the sea of downcast eyes about the table. “That is all _anybody_ ever need know.” He is cold as ice again, mastered and measured; he rises from his chair at the head of the bench and his household guard rise with him. “I am for the small council, to share news that should’ve been passed weeks ago.”

He sweeps out like a storm, a swirl of grey-and-white cloaks and silver hand-pins following at his heels. Septa Mordane catches Arya by the wrist and drags her along as she herds Sansa and Jeyne swiftly from their seats. Catelyn sinks back to her place at the table, her face pale in the waxy sunlight flooding the tall windows. Wordlessly, she puts her hands to her cheeks and rocks forward. Nell watches with grief and guilt bleeding to one in her bones, watches as the hair red and rich as fire slips from its plaits and falls as a curtain to mask the sobbing of her lady. Tentatively, Nell reaches a hand across the ashwood; Catelyn’s scrabbles out to clutch it.

“I am undone,” she whispers. “Nell, I am undone.” Her eyes are Tully blue and bright with tears as she lifts her face from her hand. “I thought I was steadfast now as I’ve ever been, I thought all the griefs and triumphs and tragedies I’ve weathered would see me constant as the sea.” She grips Nell’s hand. “But I am not the sea, Nell Northwood, no more than I am snow or ice or direwolf. I am the red-brown mud of the river, I am the lush green fields of home, I am the pathways of the three-forked Trident.” Her eyes are wild. “It was not until I stepped back into the very sept where I was wed that I realised half my life I’ve lived as a stranger in lands that will never rise and fall with the beat of my heart.” She crumples, fresh tears staining her cheeks. “It was not until I sat beside my father and tended to his hurts that I realised I have oft wished I never stepped foot from Riverrun to Winterfell.” She bites her lip to stem a sob. “I _am_ terrible, Nell Northwood.”

Nell shakes her head fiercely, digging her nails into the soft white hand of her lady. “No,” she murmurs. “Not terrible, my lady, never terrible.” She tries to smile, but feels tears thick in her own throat. “You are fierce and proud and true, you love your lord husband, you have raised fine sons and your daughters… my lady, those girls are the best of you. They are everything bright and beautiful, believe it.”

“I love my children with every beat of blood and sherd of bone in my body,” whispers Catelyn, her gaze steadfast and unwavering. “I love my husband with all my heart, but I have never found it in me to love his bastard.” The words fall sharp and steely as knives from her tongue. “Fifteen years, Jon Snow has sat as a badge of dishonour in the halls and yards of Winterfell. I can’t count how many times I asked Ned to send him away, to foster him out to King’s Landing or the Eyrie or some rabble-down northern house near the Wall.” Her eyes glow. “Whoever that boy’s mother was, Ned must have loved her fiercely – for he always refused me… _me_ , his wife.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Was she whore or wench? Was she a fisherman’s daughter or a noble lady of Starfall? He never told me, he never will.” Her nails bite sharp into Nell’s hand now. “For the love I bear Ned, I have never hurt his son, but I _hate_ him, Nell, I hate him with everything that is in me.” She sinks back and stares. “Do you still think I am not terrible, Nell Northwood?”

Nell reads it all in those blue Tully eyes in an instant; she releases her grip on the soft white hand and settles back into her seat. “I think it is the shame you hate and not the boy himself,” she says softly. “I think you love your lord husband too much to have ever taken him to task with the shame that bleeds with hatred in your bones.” She dips her head and worries at her lip. “But it is not the boy you hate, my lady – it is the _deed_ that made him. That hatred sparked when your lord husband brought a black-haired babe home from the war and it has flared every year since to watch babe grow to boy and boy to man.” Her voice is quiet as a whisper now. “You forgave Lord Stark with time, but you did not forget… Jon Snow bore the punishment of that choice every time you chanced to look at him.”

“You speak true, Nell,” says Catelyn, gazing out with eyes as wooden as the seat she sits stiffly upon. “Now at last I am undone by it.” She sets her face and pushes the rich red hair back into its pins. “Robb will soon make for Winterfell and by rights I should follow in his footsteps, but I have shrugged off rights as lords shrug off responsibilities.” She gives a grim smile. “After Sansa and Willas exchange kiss and cloak and oath, I will turn down the King’s Gate and ride _home_ , Nell – back to Riverrun, back to my father, back to family.” She reads the astonishment in her handmaid’s eyes and chuckles. “Have I not earned that, Nell? Half a year I’ve ridden the River Road, sought justice at the Eyrie, brought the northmen south to follow my son, fought assassins in the dark, planned and plotted and petitioned… I am tired, Nell, _tired_.” The laughter fades with the fire in her eyes. “Have I not earned time to sit beside my father as he dies?”

Nell meets those blue Tully eyes as Catelyn gazes at her. She sees lines marking the creamy skin that were not there half a year ago, she sees the firm set of her lips, the silver strands peppering the hair red and rich as fire at her brow. _She is a shadow too_ , Nell thinks sadly. _A shadow that has been forced to watch one son break and lie abed and another play at war against a lion_. They look at each other for a long time: lady and handmaid, each torn by guilt and shame at deeds they will never speak of. _Black and white and grey_. It is there in their eyes as they stare at one another: love and hate, deed and debt, seed and storm. _All the shades of truth_ …

“Time,” whispers Nell, rolling the word as soft as river-smooth pebbles on her tongue. “Nobody has earned it more, my lady.”

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The godswood is cold and quiet come evenfall, but it reminds Ned of home. He misses the grey stones of Winterfell, the song of swordplay as his sons practice in the yard, the bite of ice on his face come morning, the smoke of breath come night. Here, sat in the crooks of the great heart tree of oak, he finds a measure of peace. But he yearns for the hard comfort of the weirwood at his back, the play of red-gold leaves drifting and twisting across the deep black pool, the scent of soldier pines, the black shadows of ironwoods. The moonlight falls thick and full through elm and alder and black cottonwood, limns russet-green leaves pearl and ivory as they fall as wraiths around him. _Black and white and grey_ , he thinks, _all the shades of truth_ …

“I am changed,” says Ned, low and rough. “Nell, I am changed.”

“How did you know I was here?” asks Nell, her boots soundless as she brushes through the leaf-mould and sinks beside him. The moonlight plays on her face in half a hundred dapples of silver and shadow; her eyes are starlit sea drinking his. Leaves fall and catch on her shoulders till her cloak looks as if it is made of autumn flowers.

“I always know,” whispers Ned, finding her hand beneath the folds of flowers and weaving his fingers with her own. “When you are near, a wave washes over me strong and sure as the salt sea.”

“A wave of what, my love?” she asks softly.

“Calm,” he says, his fingers whispering the smooth silk of her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips. He pulls her hand to his face now and leans into her touch. “Even now when I am changed in this court of blood and fire, that wave washes me still.” Her fingers stroke his wild black beard gently and he shudders. “If I had not lifted you from the sea that day, my heart would have drowned along with yours.” He meets her eyes and they glow in the moonlight. “Promise me, Nell – promise me you’ll always be beside me.”

Her fine black brows flicker as a frown sets a crease above those starlit eyes. She moves to sit astride him, her little hands framing his face and tilting him back against the great oak tree, her thumbs running the tight skin beneath his eyes. “Always,” she whispers. She kisses him, soft and slow and sad and sweet. “Always, my love.”

“I dreamt of wingbeat and wildfire,” he whispers, shuddering against her mouth. “Rose crowns and red mountains and a bed of blood.” He gasps as if he is drowning and clutches tight to her waist. “Fire and smoke and ash – with no salt wave to sooth me.”

“I know those dreams,” murmurs Nell, resting her brow to his and running her fingers through his dark hair. “Dreams of smoke and blood and roses. I see them sometimes when I look at you. I feel them in my heart, deep and heavy as a stone drops in a river.” Her hand runs the column of his throat and tips his chin up; she takes his mouth and breathes his sigh. “Oaths and promises and bonds of blood, they trouble you while you sleep. I know it, Ned, I’ve known it all these years.” She gazes at him. “But know this, my love, whenever you wake from them, whenever their smoke chokes you and their blood drowns you in grief – I will be there to sooth their sting.” Their lips meet softly. “Always, love, _always_.”

Quiet words and soft kisses turn to heat and hard hands in a breath. She pulls the clasp of her cloak free, he pushes it from her shoulders and yanks at the ribbons of her bodice as she lifts her hips and hefts her skirts up, her fingers scrabbling at his laces. Her breasts rise milk-white in the moonlight as wool and velvet gives way; he sinks a trail of fire down her throat and dips his head to take her ice-hard nipple in his mouth. She moans and grips his head before her fingers close in his dark hair and she yanks him up. Their mouths meet: a clash of tongue and teeth and taste. He frees himself from the half-undone laces of his breeches and runs his fingers between her legs, finds her wet and whining. They are frantic now. She spreads her thighs and lifts her hips and takes him inside herself, all of him, settles on this fixed point as the world shifts around them in half a hundred shades of silver light. _Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth_. In her eyes, he reads his own truth: a single shade brighter than any other.

“I belong here,” he breathes, his hands circling her waist, marking the silk of her skin with his rough thumbs. “You are my home.”

“Hearth and home and heart tree,” she murmurs, rocking back and surging forward, pulling him into her heat, her fingers in his hair. “I’ll forever be all three for you, my love.”

He kisses her desperately, feels her heart surge within his own, feels the smoke of his dream lift from him as she wraps around him, as her heat pulses around his cock and draws him deeper. He holds her by the nape of her neck and moves harder, chases the storm of council talk and changed wives and regretful words from his head. But she holds his face steady and drinks his eyes and sees through him in an instant.

“There will be war,” he whispers, the words ash on his tongue to finally speak them. “Dragons rise again in the east, a princess with fire in her blood rises with them.” He bites his lip and rocks harder still. “It may be in a year or two or twelve… but it will come, Nell. I feel it certain as I feel you, here, _now_.”

Nell gives a soft little smile, her hand rising to smooth the dark hair back from his brow. She surges on him like salt water, pulling him, filling him, drowning him; her lips part in a soft moan and she leans down and takes his lips, once, twice, wakes him from his dreams of wingbeat and wildfire, pulls him from his fears of smoke and strife.

“Wedding first,” she murmurs, running her thumb over his down-turned lips. “Winter second.” She rolls her hips and her ribs fill his palms as she shudders out her sigh. “Everything else that follows, be it wingbeat, wildfire, war… we will meet it, Ned Stark.” Their mouths melt together. “As wolf and salt water – as one, we will meet it.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Black and white and grey_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 43: Eddard XI.  
> 2\. _I love my husband_ … and what follows based on Catelyn’s thoughts from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 6: Catelyn II.  
> 3\. Wingbeat and wildfire turns wolf’s dreams to ash and fear, river flows cold as ice, dragons rise and the future threat of war looms heavy over all… but first, a wedding.


	12. Kiss, Cloak, Oath

It is before the dawn when Sansa comes into the chamber. Nell has been sat up half the night, watching the world wake through the golden glass of her window. Without word, Sansa comes to sit beside her on the stone window seat, her dainty little feet tucked up beneath her as she turns those blue Tully eyes to share the same view as Nell. _Flames for hair_ , thinks Nell as she twists to look at the girl beside her, _sapphires for eyes – and safe now, safe at last from silver-tongued lords who sought to harm her_. They sit in silence for a little while, staring out through the leaded glass as sunlight creeps like spilt wine to limn banked clouds honey and gold. Sansa finds Nell’s hand and takes it within her own as her voice rises sweet and soft from her shell-pink lips.

“ _If I had a hundred hearts_

_Never would one stray from thee_

_If I had a hundred hearts_

_Like seeds in a garden they’d grow for me_.”

Fire fills Nell’s heart to hear Sansa’s soft little song fill the chamber as the sunlight bursts through the clouds without. She smooths the pale fingers clutching at her own and feels tears tarry with the joy that thickens her throat. She remembers the first time she sang to Sansa. _A lifetime ago when she was no taller than my hip and spent her days tugging at my skirts to make me sing song after song_ … Sansa looks full at her; Nell knows she is thinking of the same memories etched upon the grey stones of Winterfell. They smile at each other in the soft dawn light as Nell gives her lilting reply.

“ _If I had a hundred eyes_

_You alone those eyes would see_

_If I had a hundred eyes_

_Like sun in the garden they’d shine on thee_.”

They sit silently for a moment, and then they rise from their seat of stone and begin their day. _A day like no other_ , thinks Nell. She scrubs porcelain skin till it glows pink, brushes copper hair to shine in half a hundred ringlets, touches the scent of lilac and lavender to throat and wrist, hauls on laces and smooths skirts and evens sleeves. _A day where the girl who once stood no taller than my hip becomes a woman grown_ … Sansa stands amidst a sea of silk in her bedchamber and looks every bit the queen that the south wanted her to be half a lifetime ago. Her gown is cloth-of-silver and ivory samite, bordered with little pearls and silver charms; sunlight drinks the moonstone set at her throat and ears. When Nell takes her by the hand and leads her to the small hall, the Hand’s household gives a gasp at the sight of her so splendid in the grey-and-white of Winterfell.

Nell makes to release her and step back, but Sansa grips her hand and looks down at the handmaid with a tremble on her shell-pink lips.

“I’m afraid, Nellie,” she whispers.

“Afraid of what, my heart?” asks Nell.

“What if Willas Tyrell finds me plain?”

Lord and lady, girl and guard – all are rising from their seats at the trestle tables and making move to surround the sunlit scene of cloth-of-silver and trembling smiles. Nell grips Sansa’s hand a little tighter and levels her face, staring into those blue Tully eyes fiercely as she lifts her fingers to whisper the soft velvet of Sansa’s cheek.

“Sansa Stark, how could he ever find you plain?” says Nell, her voice velvet and iron all at once. “You with your copper hair and sapphire eyes… you with your heart of gold.” She feels a rush of warmth cloud her ribs as a smile lifts Sansa’s pale face. “You are a winter rose, Sansa Stark. You are fire and ice and storm and silk – let no man ever tell you different.” She smooths the sleeves of ivory samite, squeezes the slender fingers capped with silvery grey cloth. “Willas Tyrell is no doubt on his knees in the sept even now, thanking the gods for your hand and heart.”

Tears dapple Sansa’s eyes as she pulls Nell into her embrace. “You are a true friend, Nellie.” Her voice is a breath at the handmaid’s ear. “I only hope I can make Willas as happy as you make us all.”

“You are a woman grown now, Sansa,” says Nell, drawing back and cupping the girl’s cheek in her palm. “I met you first when you were high to my hip and playing with your dolls, fighting with your sister, despairing of your brothers… but look at you now, my heart.” Nell sighs at the sight of her charge in the wedding gown of ivory and silver towering up over she who used to chase after her in the yard. “Your lord father and lady mother are so very proud of you, Sansa Stark.”

 _And I am, too_ , thinks Nell, but she does not say it. Instead, she does as a good little handmaid would do and draws back to leave such sentiments to the bride’s lady mother. Catelyn Stark looks this morrow as happy as she is tired; joy shines at last in those Tully blue eyes and lifts the lines from her cheeks as she smiles and runs her hands through her daughter’s red rich hair. A crown of wildflowers sits atop copper curls: primrose and sand poppy and iris. _Green and gold and grey_ … Ned steps forward from the press of cooing crowd and sets a heavy cloak upon Sansa’s shoulders: snow-white and silver-threaded with a running direwolf. He presses a kiss to his daughter’s brow as she dips her head and straightens the silver chain fastening her maiden’s cloak.

Soon, the bell-song begins high up over the city and to its silver peal the Hand’s household dance. They step in a swathe of grey-and-white wedding finery out into the middle bailey, mount waiting horses and clamber into rumbling litters. Nell tarries a moment within the brass-fitted doors and Ned steps up beside her, frowning out at the milling ranks of his household swelling the middle bailey to bursting as they pass through the fangs of the portcullis. In the shadows thrown by the sun, he finds her hand and smooths the pearl of her nails with his thumb.

“Wedding first,” she murmurs, feeling his worries as her own. “Winter second.” She turns to glance up at him: fleeting as a shadow, their eyes drink each other’s and she smiles to see the storm settle in those grey depths. “Everything else that follows… it does not matter this day, sweet Ned.” She looks back to the middle bailey, feels fit to weep with joy to see Sansa and Arya giggling like girls in springtime to share Queen Margaery’s gilded litter. “Wolf and rose woven to one – that is all that matters this day, my love.”

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The Great Sept is awash with pale sunlight. It fills the glass domes, floods the windows, and spirals rainbows between plinth and pillar and pew. Bells peal and clang as joyous as laughter, as merry as song, sending out a storm of brass across the frost-edged city. Voices rise to mix with the music of the bells: chatter and chuckle, whistles and shouts. Deep boom of a stag parries with them all. Ned manages a smile at that as gradually the storm of sound softens to songs and prayers, incantations and vows.

Half a thousand candles dance before his eyes as the septon gives solemn speech to bleed with the surge of beeswax scenting the air. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ … Dreams plagued him again yester-eve as he quit his bedchamber and sat in the high-backed chair of the solar atop the Tower of the Hand. _A dream of red and white and black_. Violet eyes and rose petals and solemn oaths flung across a blood-streaked sky. Yet this time as he knelt beside the bed of blood, the crown of winter roses sat the lap of another. Hair as black and silky as dragonglass, eyes the blue-grey of stormy seas. _Nell, it was Nell staring up at me_ … Ned fights to focus on the rainbow flares glimmering the sept he stands within – but dreams of dragons and death struggle to keep their pull on him. He flexes his fingers, remembering the heat in his blood to feel Littlefinger’s throat wrung tight beneath his iron grip. _Mockingbird is made to ash and bone, and wolf rises with blood on his teeth_. True enough, silver eyes and the lord who sits behind them have been absent from keep and castle for a time; but the thought of them glimmering from the shadows disquiets Ned. _And my dreams, they disquiet me too_ …

He looks out over those seated between the plinths and pillars of the Great Sept. The pews are a sea of green-and-gold, grey-and-white; here and there are flashes of other houses, great and small, all come to see the might of north and south wed as one. He meets the eyes of Varys for a fleeting moment. Wreathed in peach silks and smelling of lemons, the eunuch dips his head and gives a slippery smile. Ned passes him by, glances at the king in his doublet of black-and-gold, holding the white hand of his queen in sea-green silk beside him. Ned’s own household sits close to Robert and Margaery: Septa Mordane smiling and singing joyously, Jeyne Poole a beam of pride above her cobalt silk, Arya looking bored beneath her wilted crown of wildflowers – and there between king and girl, Catelyn in silver-threaded blue velvet. _At least she is smiling_ , thinks Ned evenly. _Now she has spun her words of poison and wished a black-haired boy an icy death in the land of always winter_.

As if she hears his thoughts, Nell’s eyes find Ned’s in the crowd and narrow slightly. He works his jaw beneath his beard, frowning against the fury fanned by words thrown in the ice of his bedchamber between lord and lady wife. _Wolf and rose woven to one_ … He drinks her in: blue-grey eyes firm on his, silky black hair a stream of dragonglass down her back, slender body a storm in silver-smoke silk. _That is all that matters this day_. He worries his lip between his teeth and dips his head to her, forgetting his fury just for the moment as he steps to remove the cloak from his daughter’s shoulders and watches with half a thousand other eyes as a heavy cloak of green-and-gold replaces it.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” says Sansa, her voice sweet as song in the rainbow light of the sept. “And take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” replies Willas Tyrell, solemn as his dark doe’s eyes shining above the close-cut beard. “And take you for my lady and wife.”

 _Wolf and rose woven to one_. Kiss and cloak and oath, Tyrell and Stark are bound by blood and bond. The septon shimmers his crystal, casting rainbow light across the smiling faces of wolf and rose; Ned feels reluctant warmth flood his bones.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” charges the septon. “I do solemnly proclaim Willas of House Tyrell and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

 _One flesh_ , thinks Ned. His eyes find Nell’s again and tarry there for a moment amongst the crowd of shifting faces. _One heart_. Tears dapple her cheeks and her hair is spun to half a hundred shades of flickering rainbow light as the septon swings the crystal to and fro. _Now and forever_. He flexes his fingers, thinking again of the choking fool he caught against the curtain wall. _Cursed be the one who comes between them_ … Nell spoke true: this day, kiss and cloak and oath are all that matters. Small council, threat of war, whisperings of wingbeat – all are ash to the joy of wolf and rose wed to one. But the disquiet of dreams and mockingbirds in shadow stirs to embers in the ash. Ned listens to the joyous chant of another song of the seven as they stand and watch bride and groom descend the petal-strewn aisle – the warmth is gone from his bones and dread turns them to ice instead. Even the fire of those blue-grey eyes cannot melt it.

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The feast that follows is a fire-glow of warmth and laughter. Sansa and Willas sit the raised dais with king and queen before the Iron Throne, limned gold and ivory in the flaring light of a thousand candles. Nell sits her little ebony stool and plays her silver-stringed harp, sings half a hundred songs, soft words of hearts and eyes and seeds and sunlit gardens lifting from her lips to dance with the swirling silk of lords and ladies turning up the flagstones. She makes a curtsey once her sweet words have died and smiles at the applause that rises strong as thunder from the crowd, meets the storm-blue eyes of the king and the dark stare of her lord of white and grey as she dips her head and fades beneath the redwood archway to watch bride and groom lead the dancing.

“Such a pretty picture,” comes a soft voice at her shoulder. “My lady of the salt winds must be made _so_ joyous to see her little charge safe amongst the petals and pinpricks of House Tyrell.” Varys stands beside her, his sharp scent of lemons clouding her thick as smoke. “Especially when a lord of silver eyes still lurks in the shadows of the Red Keep.”

Nell lifts her gaze from wolf and rose and looks to the master of whisperers simpering in his peach-coloured silks. “I trust the lord made fool has spun no more tall tales of wolves and handprints, Lord Varys?”

Varys dips his head and smiles. “Littlefinger’s spies are rendered useless as an ice-wrought teapot.” He gives a soft chuckle at his own wit; his eyes gleam steadily on hers. “They will make no more reports to a man in motley, my lady.” He twists his hands together in the silken sleeves. “And yet… he moves as careless as a boar hunted by hounds, blundering through trees, tripping over roots, sharpening his tusks… scenting the first chance to spill blood of those that hunt him.” He takes her hand and squeezes it between his soft white fingers. “My lady of the salt winds is brave and true here in this red viper’s pit – she moves as a shadow in its belly and dances as well as any around its teeth… but she must have a care for the beasts that lurk in the gaps between belly and tooth and bone, beasts of greed and flight and feather, beasts of silver eyes and tall tales.” He releases her hand and steps away.

Nell watches the master of whisperers melt back into the shadows before turning with a pounding heart to look upon the wedding feast. By now, bride and groom are being carried off in a swell of laughter; the merry sound of steps and smiles echoes through the parted brass doors long after the procession has crossed the outer yard. The great hall is near half empty, but the lilt of string and pipe rises still: a happy music drifting amongst the rafters. It ebbs and flows and lifts and surges; Nell’s fingers flutter on her skirts as if her silver-stringed harp lays across her lap. She turns now and flees the happy scene, emerging breathless into the frost-edged world of the outer yard.

She breathes the icy air deep, feels tears spring to her eyes as it slashes at her lungs and burns her cheeks. Out here, the warmth of rainbow sept and firelit wedding feast is leeched pale as the moon. She wraps her arms around herself, shivers in her thin gown of silver-smoke silk. Braziers flicker with flame, but their heat is lost to the frost-edged breeze stirring up from the cobbles. She paces to and fro with words of boars and beasts filling her head like the dancing flares of the torches. Ice flies from the air to tarry with her blood; she closes her eyes and hears sure as song the chiming of little silver bells rattle against cobblestone and curtain wall.

“Here is the ward,” comes a sing-song voice from the shadows. “But where is the wolf?” Bells tinkle and chime sure as fate marching onward. “Would he leave her out here in the cold whilst he enjoys the warmth of the wedding feast?”

ლ

Merry music stirs the great hall to song and cheer, but Ned cannot share in its warmth. His eyes are busy on the redwood archway Nell disappeared beneath once the soft sound of her silver-stringed harp eddied out to air. The eunuch tarries there in the shadows a moment still, smiling sweet and smooth in his soft pink robes, before he begins to cut his way through the press of the crowd, dipping on silent slippers toward the raised dais standing in the shadows thrown by the Iron Throne.

“You stare like a wolf set to eat that little spider up,” comes a sharp voice to his left. “Will you not enjoy our daughter’s wedding feast, my lord? Not even a little?”

Ned turns to meet the sapphire gaze of his lady wife. Her eyes have thawed but little in the sennight she has been in King’s Landing; but for the moment at least she keeps her smile to see lady after leaping lady spin the flagstones with lord after laughing lord. She touches Ned’s sleeve now, grips gently with her fingers the dark grey velvet. For a moment his arm is tense beneath her touch, but then he remembers words spoken in the shadow of brass-fitted doorway this morrow. _Wolf and rose woven to one – that is all that matters this day_ … He breathes a sigh.

“I am sorry, my lady,” says Ned quietly. “For solemn eyes at a wedding feast – and words of hate and heat spoken a sennight past.”

Catelyn removes her hand from his sleeve even as her smile remains. “Forgive me, too.” Her voice is faint as an ember. “I should have come to you straightaway with news of Jaime Lannister’s capture… and I should never have talked as I did before our daughters. They are innocent of everything.” She meets his gaze steadily, the fireflame softening the set lines of her face and turning her cheek to velvet. “Politics and promises brought us together, Ned. Kiss and cloak and oath bound us… but we are not as we were half a lifetime ago.” She gives something of a laugh now, low and slow. “You move more like a wolf than ever I’ve seen – and I fly like a silver trout happy to be home.”

“Is that what you want?” asks Ned, after a moment. “To be home?”

“For a time,” replies Catelyn, nodding. “I would treasure what time there is left to sit my father’s sickbed and tend his hurts.” There is fire in her eyes to match the ember in her voice. “Time I will take, with or without your blessing, my lord.”

“You do not need it,” agrees Ned, dipping his head. “But you have it nonetheless.”

“I had thought to take Nell with me,” she says, looking past him to the empty redwood archway. “Have her travel at my side the River Road and help me with my father… but she is happy here, I see it clear as day.” Her sapphire eyes are warmer now. “The girls need her more than their mother needs a companion – and with her here I know they will be safe from harm and well looked after.”

“Aye,” murmurs Ned. “She is sister, nurse, and septa to them. Even Arya learns her stitches and wears crowns of wildflowers.” They share a smile then, and it is warm and true. “Without Nell here, I wonder how they would have managed in this court of blood and fire.” _They would have been burned to ash by its flames, as would I_ … “She’ll see them right whilst their mother takes her time at Riverrun.”

 _As wolf and salt water – as one, we will see it so_. Ned feels a little of the ice melt from his bones as he thinks of blue-grey eyes lighting on his amongst a crowd of thousands, feels too a flicker of guilty glee as he thinks of her icy skin pressed against him in the godswood, the warmth of her mouth, the soft words of hope and healing that fall from it. _Hearth and home and heart tree, always_. He settles back into the hardwood chair and watches alongside his lady wife the emptying hall spun to song and dance.

A soft hand touches his shoulder briefly, the smell of lemons clouds the dais, robes of peach silk rustle as the spider bends to whisper urgent words of silver eyes and fools run mad in the Hand’s ear.

ლ

Nell does not see Littlefinger’s face; he steps up behind her, arms of yellow and blue motley wrapping at her shoulders. A hand of blood-red velvet whispers at her throat whilst the other presses against the small of her back. _A bluff or a blade?_ Something cool and sharp presses the swell of flesh at the base of her spine, denting the silver-smoke silk till she feels the point of a dagger cut to her skin.

“So,” whispers Nell, “the fool is finally having his fun.”

Littlefinger’s laugh is a moist hiss against her throat. “A fool’s fun is only just begun – I told you true that day in the sunken gardens.” His voice is silky as the silver bells chiming on his fool’s hat. “A fool’s fun would be made complete if he strode into the wedding feast with the handmaid’s harp setting string to his song of Ned and Nell’s betrayal… he would sing it to the rooftops and let all the world know what a whore Catelyn Stark’s little handmaid truly is.” He laughs again to feel how tense she grows.

“Don’t act so surprised, Lady Northwood. Did Eddard Stark not warn you the very first day you set foot in his keep that whispers follow everyone and everything in this red viper’s pit?” He twists the dagger at her back. “I must admit, you were the very image of piety to begin with… but a handmaid need spend only _so_ much time on her knees in the godswood _praying_ – is _that_ what you and he call fucking, my lady?” His velvet fingers circle her throat. “If only the world knew… _such_ a scandal it would be! The icy Eddard Stark shunning the very virtue that armours him – his beloved _honour_.” He spits the word. “Your cunt must be especially sweet, Elenore Northwood, to tempt such a man from all he holds dear.”

 _I am undone_ , thinks Nell. _I am undone – and I will fall a helpless heartless whore in the frost of a foreign castle_. She is grateful Sansa is spirited away to a chamber that will swell with love and light – she is thankful the gods gave her enough time to at least see that promise kept. Grateful, too, that half a hundred eyes have brass doors set between the merriment of the great hall and the misery without. _I am undone_. She wants to sink to her knees and weep and scream, wants to call for her lord and cling to him helpless as a child. But she won’t, not now, not ever. _I must weather these flames alone, as handmaid, as woman, as whore_.

“What do you want, Baelish the Bold?” Her voice is a breath.

“Hmm, a quandary,” hums Littlefinger. “I _wanted_ a Tully girl called Catelyn half a lifetime ago, I wanted her hand in marriage, I wanted heirs got on her, I wanted love and all its warmth and sweetness.” He twists the dagger as he speaks. “Then after Brandon Stark beat me blue, I wanted a Tully girl called Lysa – and I had her.” His voice curls low and cruel from his throat. “Down by the brook, I had her every which way it is possible to have a maiden. Even in my sickbed, I fucked her and thought of Cat. She wanted to marry me – her father gave her moon tea instead.” His fingers whisper the line of her jaw. “After that? I wanted fortune, I wanted standing, wealth, castles, titles, _power_ – I wanted to climb the ladder of chaos rung by rung and rule from its crown… then _you_ swept in and stole it all from under me. Power, wealth, Cat’s own self – all of it.” He hums and sighs. “So now, what do I want, Lady Northwood? I want you on your knees before me, begging with pretty words from your pretty lips.”

“Do you want nothing apart from what Eddard Stark has?” she whispers. “His wife, his titles, his lands, his _daughter_.” Her lip is half a snarl. “Have you spent twenty years hurting over a life that was never yours to live?”

“Kneel and beg, Nell Northwood,” he says coldly. “Or I will tip back my head and sing the tale of the wolf and the handprint – and ruin the life you claim I covet.” He presses the blade a little harder to her back. “Think of them all before you utter another word. Think of little Arya and lovely Sansa, think of their brothers in the north. Think of the lives you will shatter, the lives you set below your secret shame.” He grits his teeth. “Whore, that is _all_ you are, Nell Northwood. Whore and harlot and heathen – shame follows you like scent: sickly sweet and suffocating.” He is run mad, seeing nothing but hate as his hand closes on her throat and squeezes. “Think of how they will all hate you, how men will stare at you, how women will look down their noses, how children will hawk and spit… think of it all and kneel.”

Nell strains to look at Littlefinger and even as his fingers cut into her throat and his dagger pricks her spine, she feels pity wash over her cold and icy as the sea. He is a desperate man, this lord in the garb of a fool: brought low by a handmaid’s words, forced to jape and jest to keep his skin and place at court, stripped of power and privilege, made to look a dwarf before the woman he has loved for twenty years. Pity bleeds with power in her bones and she laughs now, a full rich sound.

“I have faced worse than you, Baelish the Bold,” she says, soft and sweet. “I faced Balon Greyjoy night after night when he came for me with hands of kelp. I laughed in the Drowned God’s face when I was five-and-ten.” Her breath is ragged over the print of his grip. “I stood still as a statue when the Kingslayer struck me with a fist of flame. I stared at eyes of emerald and saw a lioness strangled.” _I have sailed a sea of secrets all my life and I will sweep you up and drown you beneath the ship I ride upon_. “I have faced worse than you, Baelish the Bold – and I will die before I kneel to a worm.”

“Then die,” hisses Littlefinger.

The world is a blur for a moment. Dimly, Nell sees the shape of flames flicker in the braziers, sees shadows cut across them quick and sharp. She senses shouts and cries and calls, but she cannot hear the words. She smells lemons and lavender and rosewater. She feels Ned near to her as a ghost or a shadow – but he is far away. All that is clear as she sinks to icy cobbles are the eyes burning silver before her, the mouth twisted in a snarl, the hand of blood gripping her throat. _Let a fool have his fun – if he moves to hurt you, I’ll have his heart_. Her eyes are stars, her head is heavy, but she twists even so, looking for the lord of white and grey who spoke her promises easy as wedding vows of kiss and cloak and oath. _Ned_ , she wants to shout but her tongue is dust and ash and air. _Where are you, Ned?_

She narrows her eyes and frowns to focus; her gown is wet at her ribs. She puts her hand to it and looks at her fingers. _Red_ , she thinks. _Wine? Did I spill wine?_ Her fingers are the same as the fool’s gloves that grip her throat: blood-red. She wants to laugh at that, but the breath is gone from her throat. Silver eyes flash like a blade sweeping toward her; she rolls her neck away and falls boneless to a world of water.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Verses lifted from Kate Rusby’s gorgeous song _Hundred Hearts_.  
> 2\. _With this kiss I pledge my love_ … lifted (along with the format of ceremony) from the wedding of Sansa and Tyrion in _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 28: Sansa III.  
> 3\. Wolf and rose are woven to one, words of atonement are spoken, spider whispers warnings – but the mockingbird sets a sharp beak to sever ward and wolf… forever?


	13. Three Words

Ned turns the letter in his hands, runs his thumb over the gold wax sealing it. Rosewater blooms in the air as he smooths it between his fingers. Finally, he sets it down and raises his eyes from the ebony table. There are half a dozen lords looking at him: polite smiles and ponderous questions. He gazes through them as though they are the same weight as the hot words that smoke from their mouths to fade into air and empty space.

He sits the small council and there is much noise and chatter. He dips his head and frowns as though he is listening; but in truth, he is not really here. In truth, he is still in that frosty courtyard half a lifetime ago. The council chamber is warm from fire and hot air; yet the breath that fills his lungs feels edged with ice. He watches the flames flicker in the ivory-inlaid hearth, ragged silken strands of crimson and yellow that twist as wild as the flaring braziers did that night. Another question sounds dim and distant; he looks from the fire and gives a nod.

There are new faces in the small council this morrow. _A Tyrell and a Redwyne_ , thinks Ned as he glances at the men opposite him. One is run to fat in emerald silk, the other sits stooped-shouldered behind a badge of blue-and-purple. _Both fought against the king they now serve_. He feels bitterness creep like bile in his throat. _Both dipped their banners to me when I broke their siege_. Mercy marked the young man he’d been during the Rebellion, mercy and duty and honour; he had accepted their surrender and heard their oaths to his stag-helmed king. But now? _This very moment if the time came again, I would rip their throats out with my teeth and howl out my triumph_ … Near as soon as he thinks it, the memory of blue-grey eyes in a crowd of thousands tugs at his bitterness and he fights the contempt from his gaze with shame as he looks again at Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne. _Family_ , he reminds himself, _they are family now and all else is past_. He feels the letter smooth beneath his palm, inhales its scent of rosewater and thinks of all the debts keep and kingdom may one day owe House Tyrell and its fingerholds in the Reach. _Wingbeat and wildfire – a lifetime past the rose would be allied to the dragon… but now they move as one with stag and wolf, I must remember that_.

“There is news come from the east,” announces Varys, soft and sweet in his robes of fur-trimmed lavender. “Whispers of the three-headed dragon find truth in tales borne by the captains that have heard with their own ears the sound of wingbeat in a far-off land.” He twists his fingers together and hums. “Two years, mayhap three, before the babes with wings grow large enough to ride across the narrow sea.” He glances around the table, considering. “Yet if the tales of my captains are to be trusted, three winged babes are all our Targaryen princess currently possesses. No ships nor soldiers, no gold nor silver – not even a _khal_ left to ride beside.” He sounds almost mournful; but there is a glimmer to his bright eyes. “I think we can rest easy for the moment and turn to more… _pressing_ matters.”

“I have sent a hundred men to Riverrun,” says Mace Tyrell, his voice as booming as his belly. “Led by my own son Garlan.” His eyes are gold-green with pride. “They are tasked to bring the Kingslayer back to court and see him fit to stand trial before the lords who judged his sister.” He plucks a sheaf of paper from amongst the scrolls arranged daintily before him. “Of Tywin Lannister’s other son, I have assurance that Tyrion seeks passage on a ship bound for the capital. He tarries at Gulltown even now, whilst at last his score of savages have melted as mist back into the Mountains of the Moon.”

“Good,” rumbles Robert from his seat at the head of the ebony table. “Good.” He frowns above his great black beard, his storm-blue eyes fixed on the letter beneath Ned’s fingers. “A moon’s turn and I will welcome the lions back to court. Let us hope one of them at least will keep his head.” He lifts his gaze and waves a heavy hand. “Leave us now, my lords, the king would speak alone with his Hand.”

They slip away in near silence, leaving pushed-back chairs and scattered papers in their wake. Ned bare notices them go; his eyes are on the flames dancing merrily in the hearth. His head is a cloudy swirl of thoughts and half-formed dreams: black and red and white as the fireflame throwing shadow across the council chamber. He thinks of spread-fingered hands flat against golden glass, soft skin parting beneath his rough palms, blue-grey eyes alive as flame with laughter, words so soft and sweet they sweep like seawater the aches of his heart. _How I long for that wave of calm to drown me_ … He raises dull eyes as the king clears his throat.

“Ned,” says Robert slowly. “You sit beside me, but you are not here.” He reaches out a hand to squeeze Ned’s shoulder. “I need you _here_ , old friend.”

“I am here,” replies Ned, his voice rough from misuse. “I sit this council to serve king and kingdom both, to save it from strife and war, to see that it does not starve or crumble to dust and ashes.” He meets Robert’s eyes. “I gave my oath, didn’t I?” He spreads his hands with a sad little smile. “And here I sit.”

“It was not your fault.” Robert’s voice is near a whisper, his storm-blue eyes sure as a becalmed sea. “Ned, it was not your fault.”

The smile on Ned’s lips twists to a snarl. He shrugs his shoulder free and rises from his seat, taking the room in three long strides and glaring out through the leaded glass of the tall windows. Weak sunlight plays shadows across the outer yard, limns the cobblestones a hundred shades of frost-edged gold. He winds a finger down the window, leaves a trail of fire burning through a film of mist. There are men walking the curtain wall, men laughing as they cross to the portcullis; they move like demons in his eyes, chattering and chuckling and crossing the cobblestones she bled upon. He wants to smash his fist through the leaded glass, wrangle his way through the archway, bound as a wolf to chase them from the yard – from the spot where she lay.

“Ned – ”

“I _promised_ her, Robert,” growls Ned, his voice a whip of ice in the red-warm room. “I plucked her from her home of black rock and storm and I promised I would keep her safe – not for a morrow or a moon or a season. _Forever_ , Robert, for always.” There is a catch in his voice: a sob or a shout, none can know. “What have I given her these nine years past but misery and moon tea?”

“ _Life_ ,” storms Robert, slamming his palm onto the ebony table. “Damn it, Ned, you gave her life that day you took her from Pyke and brought her home to Winterfell.” His voice is deep as battle-shout. “Fuck shame and guilt and all the rest – you gave her what she gave you.” He wrenches Ned back from the window and burns him with a stare of storm and fire. “Would you sulk as a whipped dog or would you howl as a wolf and tread the steps to make things right?”

“I’m no wolf without her,” snarls Ned, bitterness burning with grief in his throat. “Can’t you see that, Robert?” His hands are fists at his sides. “Is the world truly so blind they cannot see what storm she sets in me?” He shoves at Robert’s chest; Robert shoves right back. “Even I was blind before I heard my daughter’s vows and septon’s speech.” They stare with hate and fury at each other. “One flesh, one heart, now and forever – cursed be the one who comes between them.” They spin and grapple, a twist of warrior’s fury and brute strength. “ _He_ came between us, Robert, him with his silver eyes and sing-song threats – and on whatever honour I might have left, I swear I will end him for it.”

They fight like brothers now, as if they are still boys growing in the shadows of the Vale. Punch and parry, kick and curse; stag bellows and wolf growls. Breathless, they draw back. Robert has a bruise already darkening over his left eye. Ned hawks blood from the split of his lip and spits onto the rushes underfoot. They stare at each other like wary beasts, eyeing tooth and claw – and then Robert laughs and Ned joins him: a rich, sweet sound that fills the air where shouts once stood. They embrace like brothers now, rock each other fierce as if they are still boys homesick in the shadows of the Vale.

“End him, then,” murmurs Robert, gripping Ned by the shoulders and staring at him with storm-blue eyes. “End him and forgive yourself, Ned.”

ლ

It is noonday when he finally breaks the gold-sealed letter. Rosewater blooms fragrant in the air as he slides his thumb beneath the wax and unfolds the parchment. Three words written in a hand he does not recognise: green-black ink on thick paper.

_I am sorry_ …

He refolds the letter without reading another word, sets it to the back of the desk of old oak in the solar atop the Tower of the Hand. It is a bright day without, but blackness swirls bitter as bile in his chest. _I am sorry_. He is sorry, too: for all, for everything. He wants nothing more than to be able to say how sorry he is. But he is a Stark and grief freezes in him like the ice in his veins. So he sits, cold-backed and square-shouldered, gazing out through the leaded glass to the city spilling like dark wine the hills beyond.

He remembers a day half a lifetime ago in the godswood of home. He had fled the castle with its sharp words and stony-eyed looks as his lady wife demanded to know secrets he would never tell her, _could_ never tell her. Fled for the peace of the weirwood tree – and there he found Nell, sat amongst its roots in a gown of soft grey wool, singing a sailor’s shanty in a soft sad voice. They were strangers all those years ago; yet even then a wave washed over him as he sat beside her and saw her sing. It would take him years to realise that the wave that washed him was _calm_. There in the shadows of its first pull, he was clueless, helpless – a fish hooked, a rabbit trapped, a wolf snared. They spoke of Pyke: she called him warrior, named herself whore as she told of Greyjoy and his hands of kelp. Ned had laughed to hear that: he was no more a warrior than she was a whore. She smiled to hear it: that sad little smile he loved so much even as they sat as strangers in the godswood of home half a lifetime ago.

_I am sorry_ …

Three words written in a hand he does not recognise: green-black ink on thick paper. He feels each word etch itself knife-sharp across his heart. He tastes each word as ash in his mouth. _Forgive yourself, Ned_. How can he? He holds the folded paper over the wick of flame twisting up from the candle on his desk, watches it take and flare and wither before his eyes. _I am sorry_. He is sorry, too: for all, for everything. He thinks of the godswood of home, of songs and smiles in its shadows, and the ice in his veins thaws just a little as the letter falls as ash to oak.

A tear winds down his cheek, whispers into the wilderness of his beard.

ლ

Dinner is quiet, the small hall an echo of empty space. It is well-lit, filled with the flames of torch and setting sun, and yet full of shadows. They dance and chase each other across the walls, flicker up and down the tall leaded windows, find their way to fill bare seats and missing trenchers. _Like ships on a current_ , thinks Ned as he watches them. _Ships of ice and iron_. He looks at where his hands rest heavy on the trestle table: ice is here, for true. He glances to where his daughters sit solemn as the septa opposite them; iron is not here. He feels the void like a wound. It breaks and bursts and bleeds, shocks him at the ferocity with which it burns. His lip still smarts from his brawl with the king, but at least that wound is already healing. Here, between the crooks of his ribs, his heart is run ragged. He winces at the pain, swipes away the fresh salt of blood that runs from his cut lip.

“Talk in the yard is all of dragons,” says Jory Cassel, his quiet voice a shout in the heady silence of the small hall. “A captain out of Essos tells of three: one black, one gold, t’other the colour of autumn flowers.”

Wisps of dream flutter as smoke before Ned’s eyes at that. _Wingbeat and wildfire_. Seven facing three, a half-crumbled tower, a bed of blood, rose petals, violet eyes rising in the dark and wings unfurling in shimmers of green and bronze. _Like autumn flowers_ … He frowns and fights the scent of blood and roses and smoke from his nose. _Promise me, Ned_. Dreams of death and dragons – and no soft hand and sweet voice to sooth them. He shakes his head as if to clear it and looks to Jory stirring at his soup.

“Aye,” says Ned evenly. “Your captain speaks true enough, but they are saplings still.” He looks down at the sea of faces gazing up at him. “The years between birth and battle are long and hard – for men as well as dragons. We are safe enough for the moment.” _And the boy, is he safe?_ Unbidden, Catelyn’s spiteful words rush to pulse with storm and sound; they clash with violet oaths and promises kept. _Wingbeat and wildfire – and a black-haired boy lost to the land of always winter_. “Pray excuse me.”

Cold air greets him as he emerges from the Tower of the Hand, kisses at his face like a lover. His shoulders shake as he dips down the stone steps and sinks to his knees at their base. Bite of ice gnaws through layers of wool and velvet as the cobbles jostle against his bones; he barely feels the cold, the grating stone, the kiss of frost that feathers his cheeks. He closes his eyes and curses them all: king and kingdom and kin. _I am sorry_. Most of all, he curses _her_. Every kiss and lullaby and soft moan in naked bed, every laugh and smile sparkling in light of dawn, every steely stare and stormy frown, every scratch and slap and soothing swipe of tongue – he curses them all. He grits his teeth and gives a sound: half-groan, half-growl. _I am sorry_ … If he had never met her, he would have been everything he was meant to be: a good husband, loyal and true, a father who taught his sons honour and his daughters grace, a fair firm lord, a Hand who ruled with justice and compassion. _Yet without her, I am nothing_. He wonders how both can be true all at once. He wonders how she made him a better man even as they trod a path of dishonour together.

Yet he knows the truth. Here, on his knees in the icy courtyard of the Red Keep, he knows that path was formed long before he went to Pyke to smash the rebellion of a king crowned by driftwood. It began a lifetime ago amongst the stones and shadows of a half-crumbled tower. It began when he knelt beside a bed of blood and took a promise home to Winterfell, kept it safe and secret amongst the grey stones and twists of turret and tower. _Promise me, Ned_. It began when he was more boy than man, riding a warhorse as bloodied as he through red mountains beneath a blood-streaked sky. It became him, as it becomes him still in the drifts of dream and day when wingbeat and wildfire sound as storm in his head, when oath keeps him to silence beneath a wife’s spiteful words and wounded eyes. _One day they may all forgive me, one day_ …

He knows another truth, out here on his knees amongst ice and cobble: that she saved him. It was not he who saved her from the grip of a madman and the swell of the sea; it was she who plucked him from the tide-line and turned his heart from sorrow to sweetness. That night she sang in the smoky great hall high above the sea was the first night he forgot about stolen sisters and smoke and blood and oaths of violet storm – just for the time of a silver song. Their life together was the same: a soft song, a secret song, a song that only they could understand. _One flesh_. Blue-grey eyes on his amongst a crowd of thousands. _One heart_. Plush lips parting in a sweet sad smile to see him frown and fuss that first day he’d kissed her in the godswood. _Now and forever_ …

Overhead, the sky turns from soft pink to inky blue. Moon chases sun; stars glitter like a thousand hearths striking fireflame. Soon the middle bailey is a glow of frost-edged cobblestones and flickering braziers. It is cold suddenly, breath fogs as smoke from the mouths of men patrolling the curtain wall; gold-cloaks shiver and shudder as they stamp their feet and blow into their hands. Ned doesn’t shiver or shake; he is a Stark with more ice than blood in his veins – and three words etched knife-sharp across his heart.

_I am sorry_ …

He stays stock-still on his knees and men avert their eyes and avoid his hulking figure as they cross in quick steps cobblestone and curtain wall. His bones are numb, his hands frozen – but he keeps his vigil, staring up at the skies with storm-grey eyes and a sorrowful sigh eking from his lips. He wonders dimly if he will ever find the strength to rise again, wonders if he will ever find joy in anything. _Forgive yourself, Ned_. How can he? Strength is dust and joy is ash. He will stay here on his knees in the icy courtyard of the Red Keep with only wraiths and shadows for company – he will stay with _her_.

“Get up off your knees, Ned Stark,” comes a velvet voice at his back. “Get up off your knees and kiss me.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _One flesh, one heart_ … lifted (loosely) from the septon’s speech in _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 28: Sansa III.  
> 2\. Rose makes for the lion, stag spars with wolf, dragons idle in the east, wolf howls his grief… only for salt water to rise again. ❤️


	14. Men and Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Her body is a blush of bruises and kisses. Every inch of her skin burns with ice and fire, from wound and mouth both. Nell has never known Ned so gentle. His lips are softer than the down of a little bird, pressing half a thousand times every swell and curve and rib and rise, every mark and cut and swirl of black-and-blue. She stretches and shudders beneath his quiet nursing, luxuriating in the feel of him, the smell of him, the weight of him bearing her down onto the featherbed. She looks down at him as he runs his mouth over the valleys of her body and she bites her lip to think of him as he was yester-eve.

When she found him on his knees in the icy courtyard and spoke those words, he whirled so fast to his feet that he slipped and cracked his palms on the cobblestones. He took her in his arms, there, then, in sight of any eyes who cared to watch them. He held her so tight she could scarce breathe; but she whimpered as the bone buttons of his jerkin pressed against the stinging wound on her ribs. He pulled back almost at once, but only to kiss her – there, then, for all the world to see. His kiss was all and everything: deep and slow and endless. It stole her breath and warmed her blood; the salt of their tears bled with the sweet of their smiles.

“You did not read my letter,” whispers Nell, her fingers working the dark hair back from his brow. “I made sure they sent it.”

“It was not your hand,” murmurs Ned, resting his chin to her navel and looking up at her with storm-grey eyes. “It was sealed with gold and smelt of roses.” He presses a kiss to the soft swell of her hip. “Three words I read of it, then I burned it and watched my heart go up in smoke.”

“Love,” she whispers, her heart aching to see the sorrow in his eyes. “Come here.”

He moves up her body soft as a shadow, giving kisses as he goes. She shivers and sighs, aching for his mouth on hers. He is slow, torturous, trailing ice over the fire of her bloodied ribs, lapping warmth over her nipples, running his tongue as an inferno the smooth white curve of her throat. Finally, he sinks his mouth on hers and drinks her deep as a dying man sucks water from a stream. She is sore between her legs from a night spent wrapped in Ned’s arms, reaching for him half a hundred times, revelling in his heat and hands. But now she spreads her thighs beneath him and guides him inside again, wraps her legs around his broad back and breathes a heady moan to feel him move against her. He pulls back from her kiss, rests his brow to hers and gives a sigh.

“I thought you were…” his voice fades to nothing.

“I know,” she murmurs, her fingers whispering his wild black beard. “I know, my love.” She tips back her head as he glides his hips slower, her lip caught between her teeth. “You should have read my letter.” Her brows knit together, her lip springs from her teeth as her mouth parts in a sorrowful moan; he kisses her throat, nips the soft skin below her ear. “Oh, _Ned_ … you should have read my letter.”

“It was not your hand,” he says, his voice hissing as a breath between his teeth. “I thought you had left me, Nell, as they all left me.” He levels her face with his great hand and takes her lips in a swift kiss. “Brandon and Lyanna and Benjen and Father... the men who rode the red mountains with me... the soldiers who followed me by river and sea.” His eyes are great grey pools as he stares down at her. “I thought you made to join them.”

“I know,” she whispers, and she does: she knows him better than anything, than anyone. Her heart is full of his grief and they bleed together as he slides into her again, setting her womb to blaze with soft heat. “But I am here, my love. By your side, like I promised.” She tangles her fingers in his dark hair and blinks up at him through heavy lashes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Always, love, _always_.”

Afterward, he leaves her with a soft kiss to her brow and a sigh in her ear. She watches him sleepily through her lashes as he dons his lord’s face and strides from her chamber. Dreams take her soon after and she sleeps with a smile, thinking of her lord of white and grey, of life, of love.

ლ

Two guardsmen show Ned to a room that smells of rosewater and summerwine. Tucked deep within Maegor’s Holdfast, the chamber is a patchwork of ebony panels and beaten silver mirrors; it is warm and smoky, thick from the heat coming off the fire burning merrily in the darkwood hearth. _Too warm_ , thinks Ned. He crosses the sweet-smelling rushes underfoot, his heavy fur-trimmed cloak an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders. He nods a little too enthusiastically when a steward offers to unclasp the grey-and-white wool from around his neck; he shrugs his shoulders, free of the weight of it, watching the man spirit it away.

“I knew your father,” comes a sharp voice from one of the high-backed chairs drawn beside the hearth. “Lord Rickard, though not well.” The flames lick up as the chair shifts. “He was the same as you, even so, a man with ice in his veins.” A sad little sigh huffs up as gnarled old fingers grip the arms of the chair. “Ice did not save him from the fire of the south… a fate you may have shared, Eddard Stark, if not for your little handmaid.” The fingers lift in the air, beckoning. “Come, sit.”

Ned does as he is bid. The warmth is thicker this close to the hearth; he worries his lip between his teeth and tries to ignore it. He feels hot and heavy in his leather boots and quilted silver-grey doublet, the fire heating the blood in his veins and turning his heart warm as ash. _Too warm_ , he thinks. He accepts a silver-plated cup from the same steward who took away his cloak. Summerwine, too sweet for his tongue, but blessedly cool. He sips at it and turns his eyes to the chair beside him.

Olenna Tyrell has her gold-brown eyes fixed on the flames flickering brightly in the darkwood hearth. Stooped and silver-haired though she is, there is a sharpness to her that tells a truer tale. _She is the thorn amongst all the roses_ , thinks Ned warily. _The Queen of Thorns who rules behind the doe-eyed maid sat upon the Iron Throne_. He has no doubt she has a finger in every pie busy being baked in keep and kingdom; her reach is broader than the lands she rules through her oafish son. She is a queen true enough here in her dark chambers at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast: a wizened old woman with soft spotted hands. _And eyes sharp as pinpricks amongst all the petals and pearls_. He watches her, considering, the blood in his cheeks hot as the flames in the hearth. _The Queen of Thorns_ … He wonders, not for the first time, why a Tyrell of Highgarden shows such interest in a handmaid of the salt winds.

“I came to give thanks,” says Ned, clearing his throat. “For the gifts of grain and gold… for a dowry paid and a daughter’s happiness.”

“ _Hmph_ , do you take me for a fool?” asks Olenna Tyrell, her voice sharp as her eyes. “You’ve no more come to thank me for payment of Sansa’s dowry than you’ve come to talk about the hawks and hounds that Willas breeds.” Her sharp little eyes rise from the flames and meet with his. “That is the problem with you men – you talk and talk and talk without saying anything.” She hums with impatience. “Speak _plain_ , Eddard Stark, or not at all.”

Ned cannot argue with that; he runs a hand through his wild black beard. “You know why I have come,” he says simply.

“Yes,” replies Olenna, quick and sharp as her eyes. “You come to thank me for patching up the handmaid _you_ let get cut up by a fool in the first place.” She taps her gnarled fingers together; fireflame glitters on the rings of gold-and-emerald. “Too long you’ve sat idle whilst your handmaid played the game of thrones in your stead.” She narrows her eyes. “Even half a kingdom away, I heard whispers of her. She moved bold as a wolf whilst you stayed as a mouse in the shadows. Small wonder she was not stabbed or clubbed long before the night of our children’s wedding feast.” She shuffles in her seat, scenting the air with rosewater. “She is a rare sort, Eddard Stark – and you almost lost her.”

He tries to swallow the rising panic that grips his throat as it did yester-eve on his knees looking dead-eyed at the icy world without her. _She lives_ , he reminds himself. _She lives and she laughs and she loves_. “True enough,” he says, his voice scarce above a whisper. “True enough, Lady Olenna, but…” He trips over his tongue. “I… I – ”

“Speak _plain_ , Eddard Stark,” snaps Olenna again. “Or not at all.”

“I’ll never forgive myself,” he manages at last, his eyes flaring with the fire in his throat. “As a ward of Winterfell, she ought to have been safe from threats and blades, and the silver-eyed fool who bandied them.” He looks down at his hands resting heavy on his knees. “As a Stark of Winterfell, I broke my promise to her.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” says Olenna, rolling her sharp brown eyes. “Do you take me for a fool, Eddard Stark?” She reaches across and taps the back of his hand swiftly: the sharp scold of a grandmother to a child. “Ward and Stark, seven hells but you men are foolish – call her what she is: love, soul, sweetheart, pillow-mate – ”

“She is _not_ pillow-mate,” charges Ned before he can stop his tongue. “She has never been that, and never will be.” Anger flares with the fire in his throat. “She is a good woman – a great one who I will not hear being called names no better than whore.”

“She calls herself that time enough,” replies Olenna sharply, but her eyes are softer now. “The day I met her on the steps of Baelor’s sept she called herself whore as she sought a gentle husband for your daughter.” She leans forward in her chair, sighing. “With your lady wife perched cold as a fish opposite her at my granddaughter’s high tea, she asked how a whore could ever be a good woman true.” Her eyes are bright as the flames dancing in the hearth. “She’s no whore, Eddard Stark, that is one thing we can agree on. She’s no whore and never will be – she’s only a fool to love a man who will keep her in shadows when all she deserves is sunlight.” She raises a whip-thin brow at his grinding teeth. “Well, do you deny it?”

“Why do you care?” growls Ned, worked to fury quicker than he’s ever known as he stares into those sharp brown eyes. “Why does a Tyrell of Highgarden concern herself with a wolf and his ward?”

Olenna Tyrell gives a laugh at that, a soft little chuckle that warms her gold-brown eyes. “What fools you men are,” she says, staring at him from beneath her gable hood. “Always seeing intrigue and outrage in every innocent touch and extension of an olive branch.” She shakes her head. “What is it you want me to say? What is it you want me to reveal? That she’s some second-removed, hum-drum distant daughter of a seventh cousin? That she’s a spy I placed on Pyke half a lifetime ago to wheedle her way into Winterfell and bring down the wolf that rules it?” She laughs again and her eyes are smiling. “A Tyrell of Highgarden concerns herself because she _cares_ , Eddard Stark. There is no darker rhyme or reason to any of it than that.”

“A Tyrell of Highgarden never speaks a word that does not serve them,” rejoins Ned, narrowing his eyes at her. “Just as your son Mace dipped his banners to me when he knew Storm’s End was lost, you picked a winter wildflower in a court of claws who would serve your interests well.” He sets down the summerwine in its silver-plated cup. “You heard whispers, you admit it yourself, whispers that a handmaid played the game of thrones – and played it well. When you came to court no doubt you saw at once she had the ear of the two men who sat at its crown: king and Hand.” He works his jaw beneath his beard. “Do you deny it, Lady Olenna?”

“ _Men_ ,” exclaims Olenna, throwing her hands into the air. “Bloody box-head fools the lot of you – always placing yourself at the height of all import and intrigue. Never seeing past your own long noses as you stare down at the little people.” She wags a gnarled finger at him, the glittering rings catching the fire-flare and blinding him. “You think I need the ear of king and Hand to play my own pieces in this game of thrones? You think I need the help of men to get what I want from them?” She shakes her head and chuckles. “You are all easy enough to trick. Take yourself for truth – run mad to grief because you chanced to read a letter wrong.”

Ned frowns at that, the rosewater drifting from her silk-wrapped throat reminding him of the gold-sealed letter dropped to him as he sat the small council yesterday. _Three words_ , he thinks. _Three words in a hand I did not recognise: green-black ink on thick paper_. He rises up from his chair like a winter storm.

“You,” he charges, gripped by wolf-blood that sets his eyes wild. “You took her letter and changed it. You knew it read as if she had died and you sent it out.” His voice is deathly quiet. “ _I am sorry_ … you were not, Lady Olenna. Did you look out to me frozen on the cobbles and laugh? Did you seek to break me with her death? Was that your plan?”

“Sit _down_ , Eddard Stark,” says Olenna, her voice as wearisome as if he is a child throwing stones at sheep. “Near half a sennight she slept. When she woke, she was drowsy on dreamwine and milk of the poppy. She saw shadows and spoke whispers, but all she asked after was _you_.” She shakes her head, her gold-brown eyes soft. “She wrote a letter half-drunk on draughts and dreams, and it made no sense to me, as it would have made no sense to you. So I rewrote her words and sent them to you, no more, no less.” She watches him sink back into the high-backed chair. “I am not the oaf my son is, Lord Stark. I don’t dip my banners to the next great fool who rides along. I don’t need the ear of a king any more than I need the ear of a clown.” She is a wizened old woman again, soft as her spotted hands. “I helped your handmaid because I saw her as you see her – not as whore or harlot, but as a good woman true.”

“You are right,” says Ned softly, shaking his head. “Men are fools.”

“Sometimes a man does not know what he has until it is gone,” replies Olenna, tapping the back of his hand gently now. “For a moment, a day, a nightfall – she was gone from you, Lord Stark. She was dust and air, bone and ash.” She meets his eyes. “My letter only made you see what you could not see: that she is worth ten thousand of any fool or wife or man who would call her whore.”

“It was cruel,” he says evenly.

“Yes,” says Olenna Tyrell with the sweetest smile. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

They stare at each other a moment as the fire burns merrily in the darkwood hearth and shadows flicker walls of ebony and beaten silver. The chamber is sweet as her smile: rosewater and rushes underfoot.

“I’ll thank you for it even so,” murmurs Ned at last. “No fool will ever call her whore again, on my honour as a Stark, I swear it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” says Olenna, settling back into her chair and turning her eyes to the flames as he gets up from his seat with a dip of his head. He is halfway across the chamber when her sharp voice calls out across the rose-tinged air. “Give Littlefinger my regards when you send him to seven hells, Lord Stark.”

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Late afternoon turns the Red Keep crimson and cherry. Already the sun sinks low in the sky, bringing cold with the clouds that streak it. Nell turns the fur-trimmed collar of her cloak up against her throat and sets her shoulders beneath the heavy wool. Her eyes are flitting as shadows as she follows the figures locked in sword-song sweep across the middle bailey. Blades whisper as slight as the folk who heft them; Syrio turns Arya this way and that, lightning fast. _But the wolf pup moves faster still_ , thinks Nell with a smile on her face. Up and aft and down, Arya ends the dance with her blade at the dance-master’s throat. The girl is grinning wide as a jester when she crosses the cobblestones and sits beside Nell on the frosty steps of the Tower of the Hand.

“Did you see my strike, Nell?” says Arya, breathless as she is beaming. “Syrio tried to trick me into thinking he’d step left, but I caught him and turned the dance around.” She gives a laugh: a sweet song on the icy air. “Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow – ”

“Calm as still water,” finishes Nell. “You’d do better at a duel than half the boys in the bailey, Arya Stark.”

Sudden as a storm, Arya launches herself at Nell and locks her in a fierce embrace, her sleek dark head tucked beneath the handmaid’s chin. For a moment Nell is both speechless and completely still; Arya Stark is not so soft as her sister. _She’d rather scowl than smile, rather hit than hold_ … And yet she grips tight to Nell and turns her face up to stare with wide grey eyes.

“I missed you, Nellie,” she says, scarce above a whisper. “Father said I could not visit you, said the Queen of Thorns herself had forbid it.” She frowns. “But it was days and _days_ – I could not stand it.” Sharp white teeth worry at her lip. “They let Mother in to see you the morrow she rode back to Riverrun. I tried to go with her, but she wouldn’t let me. Said you would not want me to see you as you were.” She scowls now, fierce and fiery. “But I _knew_ you wouldn’t forbid me… it was _them_ that told me no – Mother and Father and the Queen of Thorns, not _you_.” She blinks up at Nell with her solemn grey eyes. “Then Father looked like he would cry at dinner and I _knew_ something awful must have happened… but nobody told me anything, they just stared at their stupid soup and bid me shush.”

“I was not myself,” says Nell after a moment, her voice cool and careful. “They gave me dreamwine and milk of the poppy, so much of it that I can scarce remember those few days I spent abed in Maegor’s keep.” She smooths the dark hair back from Arya’s brow and gives a soft smile. “But I know you came to see me, Arya Stark. I remember _that_.”

Arya shuffles on the cold stone step. “I had to, Nell,” she says quietly. “I had to see you for myself. They wouldn’t tell me _anything_. They just kept saying you were sleeping – but I’m not _stupid_. Nobody sleeps for days and days like that, not unless…” Her eyes are damp now as she bites at her lip. “If you died and I never got to say goodbye… Nellie, I would not have liked that, not one bit.” She shakes her head fiercely. “I didn’t do anything _bad_ – only crept past a guard in green and climbed through a window. I had to hide from a maid or two, but once I found your room I only sat at your bed and watched you sleep.” She chews her lip again. “You looked like Bran did when he fell. All pale and cold. I only wanted to see that you were all right, Nell.”

“You did not speak to me of Bran,” says Nell carefully, raising a brow. “But you _did_ speak about a boy.”

Colour rises to Arya’s cheeks instantly; she squirms and scowls. “I did not think you’d hear me.” Her voice is a grumble, but she sees Nell’s soft smile and the scowl fades abruptly. “I met a boy, Nell, when I was out chasing cats in the city.” Her cheeks are still pink but she gives a little smile. “He’s a ’prentice smith. He’s got a bull helm and fair blue eyes… still _stupid_ – but I like him well enough.”

“What’s his name, little one?” asks Nell, fighting the warmth of joy in her eyes.

“Gendry,” says Arya, grinning and scowling all at once. “He’s called Gendry.”

Nell thinks of an afternoon in the Red Keep’s godswood half a lifetime ago: Ned creeping up on her, kissing the shout from her lips, telling her of the king’s bastard he’d found in a barn of bellows along the Street of Steel. _Black-haired and full of fire_. She stares down at Arya, the soft smile telling nothing of her memories. _A wolf pup chasing after the half-antlered son of a stag, it is like a song_ … Mayhap one day she will sing of it: the tale of Arya Stark and her apprentice smith Gendry Waters. She thinks it with a sadness soft as her smile, knowing it can never be.

“You won’t tell, will you?” says Arya, reading the shadows in her handmaid’s eyes. “Mother would see me always with Septa Mordane if she knew.” She pulls a sour face. “It would be all stitching and singing and being told to _smile_.” She bares her teeth in a snarl, her grey eyes dark as storm. “I’ll never be a pretty little lady like Sansa, why can’t they _see_ that, Nell? Why do mother and septa both try and make girls into ladies and boys into lords? Why can’t I be a girl who likes swords more than songs?”

“When I was new to Winterfell, your lady mother took me aside and told me of the girls I would watch over,” murmurs Nell, tucking the sleek dark hair back behind Arya’s ear. “She told me Sansa was sweet as song and soft as new-fallen snow… true enough, I watched her play at dolls and beg for lullabies.” She smiles now, bites her lip. “But you, Arya Stark… your mother named you half-boy, half-wolf pup – and I watched you run them all ragged, howling as you went.” She frowns and shakes her head. “Sansa is a winter rose… but you are winter’s daughter, Arya, with the same wolf-wild eyes as your lord father.” They share a smile now. “Who am I to try and tame that wildness, little one?”

Arya grins at that and nestles into the soft grey wool of Nell’s cloak. Her voice is muffled, but it tarries warm in the icy air. “I’m glad you did not die, Nellie.”

Nell gives a soft laugh at that. “I’m glad, too, Arya Stark.”

ლ

Later, when wolf pups are to bed and thorns rest gentle amongst rose petals, Ned takes Nell by the hand and leads her up to the lord’s chamber. He talks as he turns her, nimble fingers lifting the clasps from her heavy cloak, thumbs running laces loose at her back, warrior’s hands sliding the blue-grey velvet from her body. She laughs as he tells her how the Queen of Thorns made him feel a scolded boy. It is the sweetest sound he’s heard in all his life in this moment: that rich smoky chuckle that rises deep from her throat. He kisses her to capture it, storing its song deep within the beat of blood between the crooks of his ribs.

Nell watches with laughter still lighting her blue-grey eyes as Ned drops to his knees before her. He runs his nose the taut plain of her belly, breathing deep the scent of her: that heady perfume of scented oil, flowers and sweetness that is Nell’s and Nell’s alone. His thumbs ran the valley between her hipbones as his lips surge up to sweep across the raised red pucker marking her ribs. He hears the breath hitch in her throat as he kisses the wound inflicted by a blade as silver as the bells on the hat of the fool that wielded it. She feels him tense against her and gives a soft sigh.

“Get up off your knees, Ned Stark,” she breathes, and he whimpers with the memory of ice biting his bones and a velvet voice at his back. “Get up off your knees and kiss me.”

Her fingers find soft grip in his dark hair and he lets her pull him up from his knees, takes her kiss as it lands: deep and slow and endless.

“I made you a promise, Nell Northwood,” murmurs Ned, giving kisses that make her moan low and sweet into his mouth. “I promised if a fool moved to hurt you, I’d have his heart.” His thumbs move below the valley between her hipbones now; she parts her legs for his palm and shudders. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me for every harm and hurt he caused you, my love, even as I will never forgive myself.” He rolls his head toward her touch as her fingers feather his throat. “But I _will_ have his heart, Nell Northwood… on my honour as a Stark, I swear it.”

Nell surges up onto her tiptoes and rocks Ned’s head back with the force of her kiss. She gives a whimper as the wound stretches on her ribs; but grabs at him as he moves back to gentle it. She silences his protest with her mouth, slips her legs around him, moans to feel his hands sink deep the flesh of her hip and thigh. They fall back onto the lord’s bed and she stares down at him. He looks up at her, half-mad from hunger, full-crazed by love, and bites his lip to see her as a goddess above him: black curls rumpled around her dream-eyed face, plush lips red from his kisses, wet and hot against his skin where the swell of her thighs parts across his hard belly. He roves his hands down over her breasts, settling them at her hips as she lifts herself and sinks slowly down onto him. They give a storm of sound together: hers a feral whimper, his a low growl.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she breathes, rocking slow upon him. “We’ll take his heart together, Ned Stark.” He groans to see the fire in those blue-grey eyes and loves her with all his heart in this moment. “As wolf and salt water, we’ll take it.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Salt water rises bruised and bloodied, with wolf there to lick her wounds – his, too, after thorns prick his pride. Old scores are settled, new ones just begun; and a mockingbird’s song is due to be silenced, once and for all…


	15. Warrior

Nell sits across from Sansa and watches with a warm smile as she pours peppermint tea, halves oatcakes and gives out honey. A letter sealed with gold and smelling of rosewater arrived after dawn, inviting a handmaid to break her fast with the queen’s good-sister. Nell chuckled to read it, and here she sits at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast, sipping tea from gold-wrought cups and listening to her charge giggle and gush about hawks and hounds and horses – and the husband who breeds them.

“He is everything they promised,” says Sansa, aglow with a happiness as merry as the flames flickering in the darkwood hearth. “He is good and true and gentle – and _kind_ , Nell, so very kind.” She leans across the ebony table, her voice dropping soft and quiet. “Our wedding night, he only kissed my hand and bid me sleep. It was only the next morrow that he… that we…”

“Was he good and gentle in that as well, my heart?” asks Nell, guarding the fire that threatens to flare in her eyes should Willas Tyrell prove ungallant. “Did he send the lords away from outside the chamber and treat you kindly? Did he give kiss and caress as well as maiden’s blood and seed?”

If Nell was Catelyn, Sansa would blush and squirm and stammer into silence. But those sapphire eyes meet with her handmaid’s and there is nothing but what there has always been between them: love and care and honesty.

“It did not even hurt, Nell,” murmurs Sansa, a giddy look entering her blue Tully eyes. “I thought it would, but it didn’t. He offered patience, said we could wait a moon’s turn or a year or a season… but I wanted it, Nellie, I wanted him.” She worries her shell-pink lip between her teeth. “Was that too forward? Will he think badly of me for it?”

“What did I say to you the morrow of your wedding?” says Nell, raising a brow. “I told you true: you are a winter rose, Sansa Stark.” Their fingers tangle across the ebony table as they smile at each other. “You are fire and ice and storm and silk – let no man ever tell you different, not even your lord husband.” She gives a soft chuckle. “Who is no doubt even _now_ on his knees in the sept thanking the gods for your hand and heart.”

Once the tea is drunk and the oatcakes turned to crumbs, Nell takes her leave and weaves her way from the chamber of ebony and silver at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast. She has left Sansa as she found her: a smile lifting velvet cheeks, warmth and love and laughter turning eyes to sapphires. _I can ask no more_ , thinks Nell as she crosses toward a squat tower studding the pale crimson curtain wall. _She is safe now, safe at last from silver-tongued lords who sought to harm her_. The chill of the tower’s interior matches that of the icy morning without; but Nell does not shiver beneath her heavy cloak.

Varys told her he would see the tower empty of guard and glare; the master of whisperers spoke true. Nell passes as a shadow through a heavy door of oak and iron, takes a torch from its sconce and winds down the tower’s stair, her feet sure and swift as a doe skipping through a forest. She woke full of fear this morrow, but tea and oatcakes have calmed her heart. _Sansa is safe, Arya, too_. She thinks of every bruise she has suffered to make it so, every black look and blade and dance with death; yet she lives and so do they. _I can ask no more than that_ … She moves without fear now, threading the stone stair with quick steady footsteps.

The world is dark down here in the bowels of the Red Keep. Nell treads narrow corridor after narrow corridor, twisting this way and that, passing countless doors and dark rooms, dank alcoves and deserted games of dice and knucklebones. _Not a soul down here in the belly of the beast_. Finally, she winds her way into darkness; a galley black as pitch save for the small curtain of light thrown by her torch. There are no guards near or far to show her the way here in the dark dungeons. _Not a soul, save one_ … She does not need them; she can feel him here in the darkness, she can sense him. The key Varys gave her threads in the lock and the door opens with a groan.

“You should have slipped away when you had the chance,” says Nell to the darkness. “That night of rain and riot, you should have turned your horse and rode hard for home.” A flare of torchlight limns her sad little smile. “You should never have slunk back as a snake to a court of stags and wolves.”

Straw rustles as a man in roughspun shifts in the half-light thrown by the torch. Gone are rich clothes in half a hundred shades of plum and rose and mauve. Gone are boots of the softest leather dyed dark as wine. Gone is the silver mockingbird pinning cloak and doublet. _A lord in the garb of a fool – yet even his motley is gone now_. The torchlight flutters in the chill air of the dungeon; Nell sees that his eyes are still silver and cold as coin.

“They left me my cap when they put me in here,” says Littlefinger coolly. “It’s the only company I keep down here in the darkness.” He rattles his head; the little silver bells chime and tinkle on his fool’s hat. “Gaolers come and go as ghosts, but my bells sound true and cheerful always.”

“I should pity you,” says Nell softly. “But I don’t.” Her face is firm and full of fire as the torch she hefts. “You thought yourself so impassable, sat yourself on a tower of spies and stories and plots… yet look at you now, Lord Baelish.” A flicker of warmth tarries with the sadness in her smile. “You are pale and pathetic – you are _undone_.” She tilts her head to the side, considering him. “Tell me, what was your plan before I came to the city at Catelyn Stark’s side? What did you intend to do with her lord husband?”

“Find a way to make him die,” says Littlefinger, his voice as casual as the wave of his hand. “I’ve never liked the Starks, you may have noticed.” He lifts a brow. “I hated his brother, the wild wolf who stole my love from me. I only liked his sister for the simple fact the she-wolf plunged the world to war and chaos when she took that crown of winter roses.” He smiles now. “Too many see chaos as a pit, but it is a ladder, Lady Northwood. Rung by rung, I climbed it. Set myself up at court, stole coin from banks and propped up the royal treasury, made a life for myself that was all that I wanted: the best brothels, the best Arbor gold, the best silks, the best… the _best_.” Bitterness twists his lips and the smile falls to a snarl. “Then the quiet wolf turned up to court one day, a hand-pin on his collar, ice in his veins and a frown on his face. He drank duty and shat honour, turned to turf all the secrets sown in the soil of the Red Keep, found the truth of the stag’s children and set about capturing the lioness.” He scowls. “Even then, I almost caught him. Paid off the city watch, led him on a goose chase to that brothel late at night, sent word to Jaime Lannister that the Hand would be travelling lightly-guarded the backstreets of the city.” Chains pulse and rattle as he strains forward and growls. “How different life would have been had _you_ not worked some dark magic with the eunuch and spun a web that trapped us all… Eddard Stark might now rot where I sit, with you beside him.”

Nell hears him over the thunder of her heartbeat; but her face is fierce as the flames licking up from the torch. “I am glad you tried to drain my life’s blood upon the cobbles of the Red Keep,” she says almost softly. “A dagger to the throat of a handmaid of the Hand’s household, a try at murder the very night two great houses wed to one… run mad as you were, what were you _thinking_ , Lord Baelish?” She shakes her head. “You spun your own foolish web, worked your own dark magic… and now you are undone by it.” She smiles now, warm and true. “You’ll pay it back with your own life’s blood spilt by the wolf I call lord and love – and you’ll never get what it was you truly wanted.”

“Pray tell me, whore, what did I _truly_ want?” spits Littlefinger.

“Cat’s own self,” replies Nell, sweet and soft as the smile dappling her lips. “Eddard Stark’s lovely daughter, safe now amongst the petals of House Tyrell. Safe from strife and danger… safe from _you_.” Savage joy beats her blood to see the hatred on his face; she leans closer, her voice a snarl. “Call me whore, call me harlot, call me heathen – it makes no matter, I am what I say I am: a handmaid of the salt winds, sworn to serve House Stark with the grace and courage the gods see fit to give me.” She steps back, the fireflame dipping as she draws away. “I am your downfall, Lord Baelish, _I_ am your death… remember that when you bend your head to the block.” Her voice is a whisper as she pauses with her hand on the latch; Littlefinger watches her with eyes as wild as a hunted hare, silver and quick and full of tears. “Gods have mercy on you, Baelish the Bold.”

ლ

Ned looks down to the man knelt at his feet. Once he seemed a giant, this man in roughspun wool shivering on the cobblestones below Traitor’s Walk. He seemed tall as his tales, endless as the coffers he kept, cold and quick and sharp and deadly as the silver of his eyes. Now he is neither giant nor tall nor endless. _A little man_ , thinks Ned to look at him. _Without his silks and soft words and silver threats, he is but a little man_. The guards brought him out with the little silver bells still ringing on his head; Ned took the jester’s cap and threw it into one of the braziers flanking the outer yard. _Even a fool deserves some dignity in death_. He watches the hat burning merrily now, watches the little silver bells soften and melt and drip in streaks the black-iron of the brazier.

Robert wanted his justice to deal out the fool’s execution; Ned spoke over him in small council to tell him there was no need for Ser Ilyn Payne: the Lord of Winterfell would swing the sword himself. _A crime against a woman of the north_. The words that fell from his mouth swirl Ned’s head now and he shoulders them grimly as the greatsword at his back. _A crime against a handmaid of the Hand’s household_. He stares at the flames, flickering and twisting half a hundred shades of scarlet and orange. _A crime against my love and light_ … He’d thought the last, cursed himself for coward that he did not say it. _Kept such words in the shadows, as I keep her_. He thinks of Olenna Tyrell’s thorny words in that room of ebony and silver now; but he feels warmth that soon strips the thorns soft as roses.

Ned glances up and finds blue-grey eyes in an instant. Nell stands with the swell of the court halfway across the outer yard, solemn and silent as lambs to the slaughter. She has a look on her face fierce as the fire flickering in the brazier. _One flesh_. He drinks her in as she meets his gaze, the smallest smile half-lifting her lips. _One heart_. He watches with fire in his belly as she lifts the silver wolf’s head pendant up from the chain around her neck and kisses it. _Now and forever_. Their love may be secrets and shadows, but it is fierce and warm and true; he dips his head to her as he takes Ice from its scabbard. _Cursed be the one who comes between them – between_ us _, my love_ …

Ned looks from Nell to the man shivering at his feet. His voice lifts from his throat, deep and rumbling as thunder, sweeping ice over the fire-lit cobbles of the outer yard.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King, sentence you to die.” He looks down, speaks lower now. “If you have final words, speak them now, or forever hold your tongue.”

“I am already dead,” says Petyr Baelish as he shivers on the cobblestones. “I died the day your whore rode in beside your lady wife.” His voice is so soft and swift only Ned can hear it. “I died the day she made the quiet wolf wild as his brother once was.” He narrows silver eyes cold as the ground he kneels upon. “I only regret I did not live long enough to sing the tale of the wolf and his ward to a lady red of hair, blue of eye, good of heart.”

“A mockingbird will soon enough be ash and bone,” says Ned solemnly, his great hands wrapped full around Ice’s hilt. “His song will drift up as dust after him.” He bows his head and fixes the fool with eyes of frost as he raises the greatsword. “A wolf will rise with blood on his teeth – and love in his heart.”

Ice is hefted and loosed before anyone can draw another breath. A hurtle of smoke-dark steel, the blade cuts through air and bone and blood easy as butter. There is nary a sound in the outer yard save for the flicker of the flames burning merrily in the brazier, the steady drip of silver as little bells melt down to nothing.

Ned looks down at the headless man slumped at his feet. Once he seemed a giant, this man in roughspun wool lifeless on the cobblestones below Traitor’s Walk. He seemed tall as his tales, endless as the coffers he kept, cold and quick and sharp and deadly as the silver eyes. Now he is neither giant nor tall nor endless – and his eyes stare lifeless as they used to seem deadly.

_A little man_ , thinks Ned to look at the blood pooling dark as wine at his feet. _He was but a little man_ …

ლ

Nell leaves the outer yard before the blood has cooled upon the cobbles. A swell of courtiers remain, breathing through squares of linen as they stare upon a scene of slaughter: the headless fool bent up and breathless, the solemn warrior that stands over him with bloodied greatsword gripped tight in both hands. Ned looks a conquering hero again as he did half a lifetime ago on Pyke: black-bearded, grim-eyed, broad-shouldered with a winter storm swirling at his back. Nell knows better, knows that he takes life because he has to, not because he wants to. He is not like other men who drink and fuck and feast following a battle; he will turn to his gods in that quiet way of his, clean the blood from his sword and sit in silence amongst the leaves.

So, she leaves the outer yard and the solemn warrior brooding over the blood spilled upon the cobbles. She walks the cloistered pathways of the Red Keep for a time, trails her hand over the bursts of yellow and purple and white nestling amongst withering leaves of evergreen. With the scent of autumn flowers heavy in her nose, she passes the key to the black cells back to Varys; shares a soft word or two as he slips it to a hidden pocket of his azure robes. She spies Arya balancing one-legged the frost-edged balustrade of the curtain wall and says a silent curse to herself as the girl scampers off lithe as a wolf-pup after a one-eared tom cat black as pitch. Sansa walks arm-in-arm with Margaery Baratheon, all copper curls and sweet smiles; they pass on an invitation to tea from the Queen of Thorns and go, giggling, on their way. She watches them go, a sad smile on her face, and sudden as a storm she needs him; she flees the cloistered walkways with all their echoes of life as normal and sets out across the Red Keep.

Nell finds Ned in the godswood, his back to the great heart tree of oak. The sun is low in the cloud-banked sky; warm light spills the spirals of bare branches and limns the drifts of falling leaves in soft shades of fire. Yellow, orange, crimson, they spin and turn and sink sure and soft as snow to the forest floor. Shades of fire, but the air is frost. Nell feels the bite of it through her layers of wool and velvet as she dips the path toward the heart tree, giving a soft call in greeting.

Ned does not reply, nor does he look to her. Instead, his hand stills on the whetstone running smooth as silk the smoke-silver greatsword. He sets Ice gently upon the drifts of fallen russet-green leaves and holds his hand out to her. Her head tilts to one side as she looks coolly at his outstretched fingers, watches as they part and flutter helplessly as the leaves drifting in the cooling air, reaching for her, clawing for her. _Lord of white and grey_ , she thinks as she steps to take his hand. _Lord of all, lord of everything – lord of my heart_. His fingers weave with hers; he pulls her down beside him and lays his head in her lap as she sinks against the heart tree. His storm-grey eyes are closed, his down-turned lips silent beneath the wild beard; but his fingers grip her own tightly.

“Do you hear it, my love?” asks Nell after a time, smoothing the dark hair back from his brow, a soft smile on her lips.

Ned opens his eyes and looks up at her from her lap. “Hear what, Nell Northwood?”

“Silence,” she whispers, running her thumb over his down-turned lips. “No sing-song voice, no jests, no japes, no tall tales of wolves and handprints.” She leans down and presses a kiss to his brow. “No little silver bells sounding a storm in this viper’s pit.” She sinks back and feels him grip her fingers a little tighter. “Sweet silence, Ned Stark.”

“Do you remember the day I kissed you first?” murmurs Ned, his grey eyes soft on hers. “Beneath the weirwood tree in the godswood of home, do you remember?”

“Aye,” whispers Nell, watching his mouth quirk into a smile to hear northern smoke lift her voice. “I remember. I called you warrior and you said you were just a man.” His head is a heavy stone in her lap; but she loves the weight of him. “I called you brave for saving me from Balon Greyjoy… you told me you were afraid, not brave.”

“I _was_ afraid.” He searches her eyes. “Afraid you would drown, afraid you would get carried off by the currents… afraid I would lose you before I’d even found you, Nell Northwood.” He carries her hand to his lips. “I forgot that fear as time passed and fate drew us close together.” There is sorrow in his voice to match his stare. “But these past weeks, that fear came back to me, twice as strong as ever before.” He frowns. “Yet it was not fear that we would be shamed, that someone would stumble on our secrets – not even that a fool would spill it all in my lady wife’s ear.” His voice dips low as a whisper. “It was fear I’d spend the rest of my life in the shadows with my sun lying cold and pale and _lifeless_ beneath the earth.”

“I live, Ned Stark,” breathes Nell. “And I am yours.”

“But I keep _you_ in the shadows,” whispers Ned, his eyes so sorrowful they tear her heart. “I keep you in the shadows when all you deserve is sunlight.”

She sinks her fingers into the fur-trimmed collar of his cloak and heaves him up off her lap. He moves lithe as a wolf, following the direction of her hands as she pushes him onto his back and sits astride him. He surges up beneath her, fingers biting the soft swell of her hip; a hand gripping at her waist beneath the folds of her heavy cloak. His eyes are dream-drunk as she tilts her head and kisses him: deep and slow and endless. He is breathless when she at last pulls back.

“You were a warrior today, my love,” she murmurs, framing his face with her little hands. “You gave a foolish fickle craven an honourable death. You looked into his eyes and listened to his last words. You swung Ice well and true.” She rolls her hips, slips her mouth across his, listens to the moan rise low and soft in his throat. “Don’t speak of shadows and sunlight and secrets from a godswood half a kingdom away.” Her eyes are heavy with love and lust and half a hundred other things as she draws back to pull the clasp from her cloak. “Enjoy the silence, Ned Stark… enjoy its sweetness.”

The godswood is silent for a time, but soon sweetness slips its echoes across the bare boughs and drifting russet-green leaves. They melt as they move together – as they always do. When Nell rests her brow to Ned’s and heaves a shuddering moan, she sees he is smiling: a soft sad sweet little smile. She smiles, too, and kisses him in the sunlit shadows of the godswood as he holds her safe in the shelter of his arms.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Night of rain and riot_ … in reference to [Chapter 18](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274765/chapters/38993483) of _Hearth, Home and Heart Tree_.  
> 2\. _Chaos is a ladder_ … lifted (loosely) from a line in _Game of Thrones_ (S3E6): one of the rare show quotes I think reads as though it belongs in the books - and thus made its way into this fic.  
> 3\. _In the name of Robert_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 1: Bran I.  
> 4\. The mockingbird’s song is cut to silence – and for now, all else (wolf, rose, stag, spider) sings sweetly in its wake.  
>  **NB** : Sansa is aged-up in this fic (by two or three years) and discussions of her wedding night with Nell are set strictly within canon-typical contexts of sex and marriage.


	16. Fire and Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

Side-by-side, they ride as brothers through the kingswood. Robert wanted to hunt boar and chase hares this morrow; but now the bloodlust has lifted, burned to ice by the chill of the morning. They cut a slow path instead, brushing through bare branches, rustling hock-deep the drifts of russet leaves piled untidily against trunks and stumps. A handful of gold-cloaks follow, a lesser lordling or two, and the master of the hounds sending dogs darting to and fro amongst the bracken. They catch no scent, flush no hares, hunt no boars; it does not matter: Robert is as happy as Ned has ever seen him.

“This time it will be different,” says Robert, storm-blue eyes fixed on the narrow game trail peeking through the trees. “No whores, no wine, no warhammer.” His smile is fleeting and full. “No hunting the morrow of the birth.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replies Ned, a reluctant smile lifting his lips. “I hope Queen Margaery will bless the realm with a trueborn heir – and you a son, at last.” Their eyes meet for a moment amidst clashing memories of a lioness and her cubs. “The gods know you deserve it, Robert.”

Ned thinks of his own children as they ride side-by-side in sunlit silence. It has been a moon’s turn since he took Littlefinger’s head with Ice, and after stood quietly as the fool’s blood seeped wine dark upon the icy cobblestones. _Half a hundred things have changed in that time, and some none at all_ , thinks Ned. Arya learns her lessons with the septa, wears a scowl to count her stitches – and a smile to step and strike with her dance-master. Sansa is suddenly a woman grown, floating the Red Keep in gowns of green-and-gold brocade, and now the queen is with child, she is ever at Margaery’s side. He misses his sons, but they are hale and hearty, Maester Luwin writes as much: Robb a good and true lord in his father’s stead, Bran wise and witty with a penchant for seeking out the weirwood tree most every day, and Rickon wolf-wild and wilful making ready for his journey south to Riverrun. _A boy needs his mother, and Rickon is still more babe than boy_ … Catelyn had written as much when she bid Ned’s leave to bring their son south; he had granted it. Still, he is unsure how a wolf-pup will do amongst the trout swimming their three-forked river. _Half a hundred things have changed, and some none at all_ …

“I hear tell your handmaid has healed up,” says Robert as if he can read Ned’s thoughts. “By now, she must have more marks from war than you.”

Ned gives a grim little smile. “Your good-grandmother has already laid that truth at my door,” he says gruffly. “Called Nell wolf and me mouse… she was not far from the right of it, I suppose.”

Robert lets out a crack of laughter at that. “Give me a hundred foes wielding mace and arrow and blade, give me fifty knights ahorse intent to ride me down, give me one of the dragons rising in the east – I’d meet them all with a happy heart and a hammer.” He shudders. “But give me Olenna Tyrell and I’d wither up quick as one of the roses on her banner. Fearsome old wench, that one.”

“Wise in her own way,” replies Ned evenly. “I’ll never understand why the Queen of Thorns decided to take me to task over a handmaid she knew naught about… but I’ll always be grateful.” He gives a sigh. “Her grandson proves tender as she is terrifying and for Sansa’s sake, I am ever grateful for that, too.”

“I’m glad the boy is tender,” says Robert, sweeping a hand over his great black beard. “Glad of the men he and his father bring us, too.” They share a glance as the horses cut steadily through the thatches of tree and twist. “Near seventy thousand, afoot and ahorse, helmed and armoured… should war come, I will be _very_ glad of them, Ned Stark.”

“Is there word from the east?” asks Ned.

Shadows slip across their faces as cold sunlight spirals bare bough and leaf-pile. A hare scampers off over ice-edged soil dark as blood; soon after, a bitch breaks from the pack of hounds behind and flies after it. Stag and wolf watch them pass as overhead the shadows stir like wingbeat.

“Whispers,” says Robert, turning his horse aft in pursuit of the hare and hound. “Varys tells me a silver-haired princess wanders from city to city in the desert, a score of men, women and children following at her heels.” His face is firm beneath his beard. “Three dragons, but no soldiers, no ships, no coin – no conscience now, if the spider’s reports have it right. She makes for Slaver’s Bay.”

“What fool put her on that path?” says Ned, voice incredulous as his grey eyes. “Three things the Seven Kingdoms cannot stand: fire, blood, and _slaves_. She’ll never win a throne built on the backs of chains and whips.” He follows the king’s horse beneath a low-hanging elm. “There would be riot, chaos, uprising. Smallfolk against an army of slaves… would she turn land, lord, slave and serf alike to smoke and ash?”

“Who can say what a Targaryen would do, Ned?” Robert pulls up in a clearing amidst the frosty forest. “She wants the birth-right I have kept warm for sixteen years. She could have it – keep, kingdom, castle, crown – she could have it _all_ if she could make amends for what Rhaegar did half a lifetime ago… but she can’t do that.” He fixes Ned with storm-blue stare. “I have no wish to see her blood join that of her brother’s in the ruby ford, but the world is changed, Ned. In the eyes of gods and men, I sit the Iron Throne and I intend to keep it.” Sunlight limns the stag dancing across the black-and-gold doublet beneath his heavy cloak. “The gods know I was a poor king before, but that, too, is changed – and I have much to fight for: queen, council, every man and woman in the realm.” There is steel to his storm-blue eyes. “I won’t see them turned to smoke and ash, Ned Stark, here, _now_ , I swear it.”

The hound bursts out of the trees a moment after the king stops speaking. Spotted with blood and brambles, the bitch throws down the hare caught between her teeth and bays. The sound rises like wolfsong amidst the frosty forest: a long, deep yowl that prickles the skin and reminds Ned of home. _Much to fight for_ … Soon the hounds join the solitary chorus, and the morning becomes a melody of baying. Wordlessly, Ned clasps Robert’s arm and they stare at each other: king and hand, brother to brother. Silently, the stag gives his bellow and the wolf his howl to join with the cries of bloodlust echoing through the bare branches and drifting leaves.

ლ

Sansa sends another summons on gold-sealed paper smelling of rosewater. Nell breaks the wax as she sits in the small hall and watches Arya skip deftly over trestle tables, stacked chairs and circling dogs sniffing at the rushes for scraps. Syrio follows close behind, his sword lightning-fast, his steps quick. _Not quite quick enough to catch a wild wolf-pup_ , thinks Nell as she turns her eyes to the letter. Sansa’s words are sweet as the scent of roses wafting from the thick paper: a feast to celebrate Queen Margaery’s quickening, and an invitation for a handmaid to sit at the high table beside her former charge. _Lady Sansa Tyrell_. Nell reads the signature swirled confidently in green-black ink and cannot help but smile.

Later, she treads the twisting stone stair to her bedchamber and kneels before the ironwood chest at the foot of her little red-curtained bed. She pulls out the gown that nestles at its base; silver-smoke silk shot through with wine-dark stains at the bodice. She runs her fingers over the marks her blood left that night it seeped quick and thick upon the icy cobbles of the Red Keep. _A bluff or a blade_ … Nell intended to throw the gown out once she woke from her daze of dreamwine in the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast; but Ned had given her it to wear at the tourney thrown in honour of his appointment as Hand of the King. He’d stood behind her as she tried it on in the looking glass, called her goddess and kissed her. _I’ll keep it a while longer_ , she decides, _as token of a sweet memory not sullied by the sour stab of a fool’s knife_. Nell strokes the soft spun bodice dotted with her blood, folds the gown back up and stows it away at the bottom of the chest. She picks out an old gown Sansa wore for a moon and then grew bored of: thick velvet in the grey-and-white of House Stark.

Ned takes her in with a sweep of storm-grey eyes fast darkening with hunger. Nell feels the heat of his stare on her bare shoulders, on her throat, on the silver wolf’s head hanging from its chain about her slender neck. When the Hand’s household begin to thread their way through the brass-fitted doors, Ned catches Nell by the wrist and pulls her into the shadows of the alcove flanking the archway to the small hall. He kisses her before she can begin a feeble protest, pushes her against the rough-hewn wall, gives a wolfish smile as she bites her lip and wraps her legs around his waist. He takes her quickly, no ceremony or gentle touch; she catches his lip between her teeth, bites down as he moves hard and fast inside her. Her fingers are claws on his shoulders as she tips her head back, shuddering her release, his lips a hot growl on her throat.

All through dinner they sit and steal glances at each other, flashes of knowing smiles lifting their cheeks as they think of the heat and hands and heavy sighs in the shadows of that alcove. _Wild wolf_ , thinks Nell to watch him turning earnest eyes to conversation with a lord in emerald silk. _Wild, wild wolf_. Ned catches her gaze for a moment; worries his lip beneath the wild black beard. _And mine_. She feels Sansa’s hand on her sleeve now and turns back to sharing chatter and chuckle with the queen and her ladies.

Margaery Baratheon sits as pretty as a doe beside her husband, the swell of her belly just visible beneath the folds of green-and-gold brocade, her slender white hand resting gently upon it. Once or twice, the king takes her hand in his, smooths an absent-minded thumb across the hard curve of her belly when he is lost in conversing politics with the lord at his right or horseflesh with the knight at his back. _A stag, a bull, a fool_ , thinks Nell as she watches the king with his queen, _but a good man, true enough_.

Feast and fireflame stretches long into the night. By now, the great hall is a swirl of silk and woodsmoke, as red-warm as the banners of crimson silk draping its stone walls. Space is cleared and dancing begins. Nell accepts the hand of lord after lord; great houses and small, she dances well and gladly with each and every. At her side, Sansa spins with half a dozen lesser roses. Her lord husband watches with a warm smile from his seat near the high table. _A bad leg but a good heart_. Nell looks him over as she turns and twists. _The Tyrells never spoke a truer word_. Even with her hand in another’s grip, Sansa’s smiles are for one man only: the doe-eyed Willas who raises his wine-cup and returns her grin. _Handmaids know little of the paths of wealth and lands and liege lords – but of the heart, they know plenty_ … Nell looks from lord to lady wife and knows they will be happy for now as they will be forever.

She feels the warmth of a hand seep through the thick velvet of her gown. She knows its heat, its shape, its weight in an instant; her heart flutters beneath her ribs. _A wild wolf grows bold_. Here, amidst the swirl of silk and stepping couples, they are veiled from plain sight – yet the thrill of it still turns her blood to flame.

“Dance with me?” comes a voice at her ear, rich with the dark smoke of the north.

Ned turns her before she can reply, takes her hand in his, puts the other to her waist and smiles down at her as they make the first steps of a country dance. Nell bites her lip to keep from chuckling at the earnest look on his face as he concentrates on the steps and counts the turns. She has heard the tales of him too shy and tongue-tied to ask a maid with laughing purple eyes for a dance at Harrenhal a lifetime ago; she can well imagine it now as she glances at the frown dappling his brow. _He was a quiet wolf then_ , she thinks as his strong fingers grip tighter at her waist, as his eyes rise dark as smoke to smoulder on hers. _He is a wild wolf now_. He has his lip caught between his teeth; she knows he wants nothing more than to kiss her, here, now, before the eyes of the world. She smiles, he smiles, too: knowingly. But they turn as lord and handmaid, tear away from the pull of wolf and ward, and settle into the steps as chaste as can be.

They break apart when Queen Margaery claps her hands and calls for the handmaid and her harp. Ned drifts to the shadows; Nell takes her seat on the ebony stool set in the fireflame of half a hundred candles. Boisterous laughter and raucous shouts dim in a moment. With a fascination fast becoming familiar to them, lord and lady turn their ears to the sound of the silver-stringed harp laid upon a grey-and-white lap. Nell sings a pretty song or two, soft words of heroes and stars and ruby rivers and silver light flowing from her lips, sweet and sorrowful, lifting and lilting to tarry amongst the rafters of the great hall.

She feels the burn of Ned’s eyes on her as she sings. When she peeks at him through her lashes, she sees he has the same knowing smile as dappled his lips when they danced. Her lips lift to match it as her fingers flutter across the silver-stringed harp in her lap. Her music dies soft and sweet as it began. There are cheers and shouts and claps – the bellow of a stag cuts them to quiet. The king beckons to her with a heavy hand; she dips her head and goes to him.

Robert Baratheon greets her with a wink over his wine-cup and waves her to sit in the redwood chair beside him. Nell sinks a curtsey and takes her seat, the grey-and-white gown spilling like heavy water to the flagstones underfoot. The king fixes her with those storm-blue eyes, a half-smile quirked on his lips.

“I must admit, I have been vexed with you, Nell Northwood,” he says, raising a black brow as he stares at her.

Nell narrows her eyes with a smile to match his own. “With me, for true?”

“For true,” says Robert, swirling the wine in his cup as he motions to the grey-eyed lord cutting through the crowd toward them. “You made that man half-mad with grief. He was _useless_ , sat staring like a lovesick maid at council meetings, at supper, at sword-play.” He chuckles now, a fat happy sound. “A poor Hand… a poorer man.” He looks back to Nell. “Yet now you’re back, the wolf strides strong again – and grows bold enough to ask a maid for a dance.” He leans closer, storm-blue eyes sparkling as he speaks low and soft. “If the world was kinder, I’d give him a royal annulment and see the both of you wed before one of those damned white trees Ned loves so much.”

“Robert, no,” says Nell sharply, feeling his words sting at her ribs like a knife. “It can never be, and you should not speak of it.”

That black brow lifts again. “You tell a king what he should not speak of?”

“I tell a man – a _friend_ with a heart as good and strong as his sword-arm,” murmurs Nell, fixing her eyes on his as fire pulses in her throat. “Don’t break my own heart with careless words for things that can never be, I beg you.”

The king grasps her chin with a grip surprisingly gentle for such a giant of a man; he turns her toward the crowd and she looks from him to her lord of white and grey wordlessly. Ned seems to be in polite conversation with a lord in blue-and-green garb, but his eyes stray to hers more than once. _In another life_ … She watches him with love as heavy in her heart as sorrow wrought fresh by a king’s kind words. _But not in this one_.

“I know what it is to have lost life’s one love, Nell,” says Robert, softly now. “I know what it is to live in the shadows cast by such loss.” He sighs, deep and low. “It is a grey world, cold and cruel and miserable. Even now, with a queen of sunshine at my side and a son growing inside her, I ofttimes miss that maid of ice and snow who first captured my heart.” He turns her gently and looks full at her. “These damned Starks… they are hard to love, Nell Northwood, and impossible to lose.”

Nell gives a soft smile at that. “You did not choose to lose Lyanna,” she whispers. “You did not choose the path of battle and blood you were set upon: you loved and you lost, that is what the gods decided.” She bites her lip. “I _chose_ my path, Robert. I chose it sure as Ned chose me that day he saved me from Balon Greyjoy and took me home to Winterfell… I’ve sailed a sea of secrets every day since.” Her eyes are soft as her smile now. “Love has brought me shame as it has brought me sweetness – but I will gladly bear any shame to save the strife if such secrets chanced to come to life.” Her smile grows wider as she thinks of a frowning face before her in a merry country dance. “I’ll live in the shadows so long as I have my moments in the sunlight… with _him_ , Robert, with my love.”

The king strokes the silk of her skin feather-light before he releases her chin. They turn as one to look at Ned as he mounts the steps of the dais and presses toward them, as grim as winter storm in his doublet of smoke-grey velvet. Yet when he sees Nell looking to him from her seat beside the king, the grim expression fades, softens to a smile then a scowl to watch the king drop his hand from her face. King and handmaid laugh together at that.

“You’re a wise woman, Nell Northwood,” says Robert gently. “One I’d no doubt chase after myself if I wasn’t so scared of that bloody wolf ripping out my throat.” They look from Ned’s scowl to each other’s eyes and cannot fight their smiles, even as the king’s eyes turn from sparkle to storm-blue sincerity. “But hear me now, Nell, if ever life’s path changes, my offer to wolf and ward will stand true.” He bows his head solemn as he can manage, eyes fixed on hers. “A royal decree – and a wedding before a heart tree.”

ლ

Ned watches as Nell takes the pins from her hair. Black and silky as dragonglass, it falls in half a hundred heavy waves to whisper at her hips. Absently, she runs her fingers back from her brow, setting the curls to tremble and twist; dragonglass catches the embers glowing in the hearth and turns to crimson. He watches her from the lord’s bed, patient as a waiting wolf, grey eyes following every lift of her hand as she slips free the laces of her gown, steps out of its skirts, slides the sleeves off her arms, wriggles from the bodice. Finally, she pulls the silk chemise over her head and stands before the looking glass, naked as her nameday, frowning as she fusses with an earring.

Patience slips like smoke from the waiting wolf as she bends to place the earring in a box studded with shells. When she straightens, she gives a sigh; Ned steps close behind her, his hands settling on the soft swell of her hips. Their eyes meet in the looking glass: blue-grey drinking in winter storm. It is warm in the bedchamber, the embers giving off heat as well as yellow glow in the hearth; but Nell shivers against Ned, her skin turning to prickles as his thumbs rub soft slow circles on her hipbones. Slowly, one great hand works up from her waist and shifts the weight of her hair over her shoulder. A soft little moan starts in her throat as he bares her neck and sinks his mouth upon its smooth white curve.

“Have I told you how glad I am that you are alive?” asks Ned against her skin.

“Only half a thousand times,” breathes Nell, her hand rising to cup his head as he whispers kisses along her throat. “ _Ned_ …”

That velvet voice she uses just for him; it strikes his belly hard and deep as it did the first time he heard it half a lifetime ago. She squirms with his earlier impatience, swaying in the shelter of his arms, arching her back and pushing her breast into his hand as he trails his fingers across its ice-hard peak. _Much to fight for_ … Words of fire in a forest of frost, Ned hears them again as he stands wrapped as ivy around his ironlady. He feels the same fury that turned Robert’s storm-blue eyes to steel as he thinks of everything dear and good and true to him turned to smoke and ash in the wake of wingbeat and an army of whips and chains. Unbidden, these thoughts of dragons and dust and danger turn to wisps of dreams half-remembered. _Wingbeat and wildfire, violet eyes and autumn flowers, a promise made beside a bed of blood_ …

“Ned,” comes a soft voice from the darkness of his dreams. For a moment, he thinks it must be Lyanna, calling for him in a room that smelt of blood and roses. For a moment, he is on his knees again, tears thick in his throat, ears burning with an oath to keep till death. For a moment… “Ned, _love_ , look at me.”

Gradually, dust clears and he blinks as if from sleep, staring with wide grey eyes at the blue-grey stare fixed on his in the looking glass. “Nell.” His voice is a breath, thready with relief. “ _Nell_.” Gently, she turns in his arms and holds his cheek in her palm, her thumb smoothing the down-turned lips beneath his beard. “Love.”

“You were far away, Ned Stark,” whispers Nell, taking his hand and leading him slowly to the great bed. She sits him upon it and stands before him, her fingers running the plump muscles of his shoulders, feeling the tension fade from him beneath the soft tread of her palms. “Dreams again?” He nods and finds her hips with his hands, brings her down upon his lap. “You used to tell me of your dreams, love.”

“You know my dreams, Nell Northwood,” breathes Ned, staring up at her as she lifts the linen shirt over his head. “Blood and smoke and roses… you know them as well as my own heart knows them.”

She watches him with a frown creasing her brow, her hands resting gently on his chest. “Something has changed of late.” Her voice is scarce a whisper as he looks into her eyes. “Since news of the three-headed dragon came to court, I see other things in your eyes.” He watches her with his heartbeat loud in his ears; his fingers tighten on her waist. “Dreams of red and white and black, mountains and half-crumbled towers, wings the bronze and green of autumn flowers.” She smooths her thumbs over the tight skin beneath his eyes; he shudders into her touch. “What scares you so, my love? What terror turns dreams of blood and smoke and roses to flame and ash and bone?”

Ned wonders, not for the first time, how Nell can possibly know any shadow of the secrets that plague his dreams. _One flesh_ , he thinks grimly. _One heart, now and forever, she knows me better than I know myself_ … He makes himself give a smile: a sad sweet little smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. She sees it in an instant, but she doesn’t scold him as other women might, doesn’t prick and pry at him as men surely would. Instead, she rolls off of his lap and lies back amongst the crimson coverlets; her eyes fix on his and draw him to her as a siren does a wayward sailor. He swarms her body in an instant, finding her throat with his mouth, trailing kisses the curve of her jaw before he takes her mouth and inhales her sigh.

“Your secrets are your own, my love, and that is how they will stay for as long as they must,” murmurs Nell, drawing back from his kiss as she opens her legs to feel him shift between them. “A Stark of Winterfell always keeps his word.” He is inside her in an instant; parting her, feeling her as hot and good around him as her lips on his cheek. “I may not be your wife or your lady… but I know your heart, Ned Stark.” Her head tilts back amongst the red covers of the bed; her plush mouth parting in a low moan. “I know your dreams, too, and I’ll soothe their sting without ever knowing their truth… I promise.”

The truth is as hot on his tongue as she is as he moves inside her, deep and slow and endless. He wants it so badly, to spill the secrets that turn his heart to ice, to talk of the horror and heartache of a promise made on his knees beside a bed of blood. _Wingbeat and wildfire, violet eyes and autumn flowers_ … He knows sure as his own heartbeat that she would keep his secrets as well as she soothes their sting, that she would bear their weight with a strength to match his own. _Promise me, Ned_. He wants it so badly – but he cannot. _Not yet, not yet_ …

“You are my heart, Nell Northwood,” whispers Ned, levelling her face with his and taking the kiss she lifts toward him. “You’re my bones and blood and breath.” She blinks up at him with eyes the glitter of starlit sea; he is lost in them. “One day you’ll know my secrets as well as you know my dreams.” He catches her soft little smile with one of his own, feels them bleed together as he kisses her again. “One day, my love.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _One flesh, one heart_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 28: Sansa III.  
> 2\. Dragons move restless in the east, rose grows a seed, wolf and ward are hungry as ever, and a stag makes a promise… but can any good ever come of it?


	17. Coin of Change

Nell sits at the window, blue-grey eyes aching as she watches the dawn come in. Behind her, in the great bed at the centre of the lord’s chamber, Ned sleeps soundly. The world without is a flare of frost and flame as weak sunlight breaks through banked clouds and sets its kiss upon the towers and turrets of the Red Keep. Leaded light turns the pallid blossom in her hand crimson and cherry. She passes soft petals from palm to palm, watches the blood-red glitter play across them. At her side, in a pearl-wrought vase, sit half a hundred other flowers. _The friends of the petals I palm and pluck_ , thinks Nell as she sets lazy eyes upon them. Yellow and purple and white, no doubt the maid who picked them thought them pretty: dahlias, crocuses, cyclamen and snowdrops. Yet just like the burst of flowering wormwood tarrying between her fingers, the blooms in the pearl-wrought vase are fast withering. _Flowers of autumn – soon to die in winter’s white winds_ … She slips the stem back amongst its friends, a sad little smile dappling her lips.

With soft steps, Nell crosses from the window to the great bed heaped with crimson coverlets and bearskins. Ned sleeps near as silently as he does most everything; his down-turned lips parted but little beneath the wild black beard. Nell sits beside him and watches him sleep for a time. She smooths the dark hair back from his brow, smiles as his lips quirk up fleetingly at her touch. _A royal decree – and a wedding before a heart tree_ … Quick and sharp, a king’s kind words run her heart ragged against her ribs. She has tried to forget what Robert said that night of feast and fireflame a sennight past, but often his words wake her hours before the dawn and set her sit still as stone to watch doubt and despair flood in with the morning light. She has not told Ned; most like she never will. Her eyes drift from sleeping lord to soft petals turned blood-red beside the window. _Flowers of autumn, soft as secrets_. Yellow and purple and white: dahlias, crocuses, cyclamen, snowdrops – and wormwood, too. _Soon to die in winter’s white winds_ …

Nell wakes Arya after dawn and the two of them sit to break their fast in the small hall alongside half a handful of guardsmen risen before their lord. Even Septa Mordane is still in her bed. Nell breaks bread and blackened bacon with Arya and thinks wistfully how small her circle of girls has become since first she sat in the small hall of the Tower of the Hand. _No Sansa, no Jeyne, just a handmaid and a wolf-pup_. Nell misses them sometimes, then scolds herself for silliness to remember they are only half a castle away in Maegor’s Holdfast, breaking bread with the queen and half a dozen roses. Still, she feels that same pang burn in her throat as she looks across the trestle table to Arya stabbing at her bacon. _Half a thousand things have changed in the time I’ve been here, and some none at all_. She doesn’t fight the smile that grips her cheeks as Arya hacks and cuts with her eating-knife. Arya returns it and then frowns over her plate.

“Is it true the Imp has come to court?” she asks, setting down her eating-knife.

Nell gives a frown of her own. “His name is Tyrion Lannister, sweet,” she says, lifting a brow. “And yes, it’s true. He arrived from Gulltown on yester-eve’s tide; your lord father sent a dozen men to meet him at the docks.” She pushes her half-touched plate away. “He is come to court to swear fealty to King Robert, no doubt you’ve heard say of it from your bailey boys… But all else they may have told you must _stay_ with them, Arya Stark. No more names of Imp or Halfman – especially in your lord father’s hearing.”

Arya gives a solemn nod. “I’ll say them in front of no-one but you,” she says with a smile quickly returned by Nell. “They say all sorts in the bailey, Nell. They call him Lord Tywin’s Doom, they say he has a tail – and evil eyes.” Her stare is unblinking. “They say he killed his mother.”

“Bane and Doom both, the smallfolk named him,” replies Nell, swift and soft. “He was only a babe, sweet. Mothers die in childbed, but that does not make the babes they birthed murderers.” She takes a sip of summerwine, the smile fading from her lips. “My mother died birthing me… would you call me murderer, Arya Stark?”

“ _Never_.” Arya scowls through her dark hair, chewing at her lip. “You never told me that about your mother.” Her voice is small and quiet. “You told me other things, how she sang to you and taught you sailor’s rhymes… you never told me she _died_.” She blinks up, confused. “How _could_ she have taught you things if you never even knew her?”

“A babe knows her mother long before she leaves her mother’s belly,” says Nell gently. “Their hearts beat as one and their blood is a song only they share.” Her eyes lift to watch the sunlight dancing through the tall windows. “Even when I was a girl sent away to Pyke, I heard my mother’s song sure as I heard the sea at my feet.” She looks back to Arya and smiles. “Do you never hear your lady mother singing to you?”

“Mother never sang to me,” says Arya, staring at her plate. “She sang and laughed with Sansa, she gave Bran smiles and Rickon lullabies about silver trout and red river-mud… she never sang to _me_.”

“She did, sweet one,” murmurs Nell with a sad smile. “She used to dance around the great hall with you on feast-days, spin you up and aft and down till you screamed for your lord father.” The memory is as distant and drifting as dust; but Nell feels its warmth as fire in her heart. “Then she’d set you on her knee and bid me play a lullaby on my harp till you gave that sweet little laugh you try and hide even now.”

It rises from Arya’s scowl now: sweet and rich, a song of its own to spin amongst the rafters of the small hall. “I still don’t like dancing much,” says Arya, eyes bright as her chuckle. “But your lullabies will always make me laugh, Nellie.” Quick as a snake, she reaches out and pats the back of her handmaid’s hand. “I’m sorry for your mother… and I won’t call Tyrion Lannister Imp or Halfman or Doom again, I promise.”

ლ

Ned knows the court would gladly pour out for the spectacle this morrow promises: the giant facing down the dwarf. He can see their eager faces as if they stand before him now, jostling and elbowing, chattering and chuckling, making japes and jests, pointing, sniggering, making mock of the ceremony of oath-swearing. Ned knows this, and so he makes different arrangements for Tyrion Lannister’s summoning to court. The council chambers in place of the throne room, the small council instead of half a thousand gawping folk milling pillar and plinth. Wolves hold no great love for lions, but Ned can put aside his wolf-blood when he must: this morrow he will move as a man, as a _Stark_.

To his surprise, Robert agrees swift and sure to each and every arrangement Ned proffers. _Half a hundred things have changed_ , thinks Ned as they sit in the empty council chamber, sharing plain fare of black bread and hard cheese. _The stag most of all_ … He is a paradox now: Robert Baratheon. He looks more than ever how he did twenty years ago, straight-backed, broad-shouldered, black-bearded and storm-eyed. Yet in every other way, he is changed. He finds patience where he used to spew curses, listens carefully where before he would shout, makes for ways of peace where half a lifetime ago he would have delighted in swinging a warhammer and striking for blood. Ned is glad of it even as he puzzles it sitting in the red-warm glow of the chamber, splitting a loaf with his thumbs, brushing the crumbs from his sleeves. _A crown of roses, is that the change?_ The doe-eyed Margaery has certainly softened her husband, with both her smiles and the seed that grows strong as a stag in her belly.

“There has been no word from Garlan Tyrell,” says Robert, holding a different mirror to Ned’s thoughts of thorns and roses. “Not since he sent that raven half a month ago with news of his departure from Riverrun with the Kingslayer.” He frowns. “I would have expected him to send word from Darry by now.”

“Mace Tyrell sent him forth with a hundred men,” replies Ned evenly, rolling the ache from his shoulders. “Even Jaime Lannister could not slip from that many – especially when chained hand and foot.” He runs a hand over his beard. “Might be a raven finds perch in the rookery even now, telling of king’s men in Brindlewood.”

“Hmm.” Robert pushes his plate of cheese away. “I hope you’re right, Ned Stark.” He looks to the fire flickering quietly in the hearth. “For as long as the Kingslayer remains at large, the Old Lion can sit and lick his wounds at Casterly Rock, make ready men and arms, send out his hound for hunting.” He looks to Ned with solemn eyes. “Until I have the Young Lion safe in my keeping, this whole sorry business threatens to take flame again.”

“The riverlands grow back green as before,” says Ned, fixing that storm-blue stare with the steely-grey of his own. “Where there was ash sown, the smallfolk plant seeds once more. The three-forked river washes away threat of smoke and slaughter.” He gives a grim little smile. “The Old Lion will not flex his fangs again… stag and wolf saw to that the day he laid tooth and claw at their feet.”

Robert smiles at that, raises a horn of small ale in toast. Ned lifts his own; the bone-cups clank together. Plates and eating-knives are borne away by soft-footed servants, papers are stacked, scattered scrolls reordered, sticks fed to the fire. Ned watches the flames lick up the new wood, flickering and roaring merrily in the hearth, sending a plume of smoke up the chimney.

Slowly, the lords of the small council arrive to take their seats: Mace Tyrell in emerald-and-ermine, Paxter Redwyne in cobalt velvet, Renly Baratheon resplendent in black-and-gold, Barristan Selmy a ghost in bone-white armour. Varys floats in last to take his seat in the shadows, wafting a cloud of perfume and powder from his fur-trimmed robes of lavender and lilac.

Ned glances from the fireflame and weighs them up, each and every: the lords come to watch the spectacle of the giant facing down the dwarf. _Half a hundred things have changed_ , thinks Ned as he stares at the empty seat where once a silver-eyed fool sat and counted coins. Varys smiles at him from the shadows, soft and sweet as his perfumed robes; Ned dips his head briefly. _And some none at all_ …

ლ

Whilst a wolf-pup runs loose with a black-haired bastard boy in the city, a handmaid sips peppermint tea from a gold-wrought cup. Olenna Tyrell insisted they carried their midday meal outside; Nell sits amongst half a dozen shivering roses as weak sunlight flares across the sunken gardens. Frost has thawed from some of the rooftops of the Red Keep; rivers of its melt are limned gold by the chill light breaking through the clouds. Voices are muffled by turned-up cloak collars, heavy wraps of fur pulled high over cheeks rouged by icy air, white fingers buried within fur-trimmed sleeves.

The Queen of Thorns is quite unmoved by the chill of the noonday sun. She wears silks where all others wear furs and velvets. Green-and-gold, her gown is a fine tapestry of brocade and Myrish lace, flimsy and dainty as the rosewater-scented wisps of silk covering her throat. Sunlight tarries on the rings of gold-and-emerald studding each gnarled finger, catches on the golden rose pinning her sable cloak. She flaps and fusses with the soft black fur heaped across her shoulders.

“A monstrous thing, this cloak,” says Olenna, her voice high and sharp as her gold-brown eyes. “Margaery makes me wear it, but she can’t make me _not_ hate it.” Her gaze fixes on where her granddaughter spears an olive with trembling fingers. “I’ve told her half a hundred times – cold air is bracing for the babe, good for its growth.” She smacks her toothless mouth together. “ _Hmph_ , will you look at them, Lady Northwood? Shivering into all their layers of cloak and fur. Sweet summer children, the lot of them.”

“Flowers of autumn, more like,” replies Nell softly, thinking of wormwood petals nestled soft as secrets in her palm. “Getting ready for winter’s white winds.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” says Olenna sharply. “They’ll need to be in their glass houses by the time winter’s white winds come around else they’ll shrivel up and die in the cold – be they sweet summer blossoms or autumn blooms.” She fixes Nell with that gold-brown stare that cuts prickly as thorns. “I’m glad to see you well, child. For a time you had me worried as that lovesick lord who plucked you from the tide.”

“I am well, thanks to your care and kindness, my lady.” Nell dips her head briefly, her fingers gripping tight the gold-wrought teacup. “I remember little of what happened to me after I bled upon those cobbles… but I remember the voice of your maester, and draughts of dreamwine and milk of the poppy in green-and-gold cups.” She narrows her eyes at Olenna now and gives a half-smile. “Once or twice, I would swear I even saw your face sitting at my sickbed.”

The Queen of Thorns gives a merry chuckle at that, shifting in her seat and pulling at the sable cloak slipping from her shoulder.

“Lord Stark tried to lift you from the cobbles himself,” she says, her tone indifferent, her eyes quick and sharp. “Fool that he is, he would have cradled you like a babe with his lady wife fast following him from the hall. Luck be to you both that I beat he and her through the doors.” She taps her varnished nails against the china of her teacup. “That fool Baelish was crouching over you, ranting and raving about a wolf and a handprint and a lady red of hair… I set a guardsman on him before he could get up off his feet and pour some salt in Lady Stark’s ear.” She raises a thin white brow. “Gave Lord Stark a kick to the knees as he stood there looking like he would weep – he came round quick enough after that, hid his heartache as best he could whilst I set about finding a litter to carry you to Maegor’s keep.” She sips at the peppermint tea, runs her tongue over her pearl-pink lips. “The fool to the black cells, the handmaid to the queen’s own quarters, the lord and lady returned none-the-wiser to their chambers in the Tower of the Hand…” She meets Nell’s eyes and gives a soft smile. “You look like a fish with your mouth like that, child.”

Nell shuts her mouth and swallows, a wash of cold tea trickling past her tongue. “Luck be to me that you were there, Lady Olenna.” Nell’s voice is scarce a whisper as she nods in agreement. “I dread to think what would have happened if you were not.”

“You would have near bled to death,” replies Olenna, stirring a spoon into her tea casually. “Eddard Stark would have proved to Catelyn Tully just what high… _regard_ he held her handmaid in, whilst Baelish the Bold would have sung a tune to match it. Who knows, there might have been another murder that very same night – wolf sent to the same cobbles as his ward by a lady wife red with anger as her hair.” That merry little chuckle sounds again. “But the gods were good, Lady Northwood, all is as it should be.”

“Why?” asks Nell, a frown knitting her brows. “Why did you help me?”

“Your lovesick lord asked me much the same when he came to see me upon your waking,” says Olenna, setting down the spoon and sipping at her tea. “As you look at me now with gratitude, he looked with suspicion. He wanted so badly there to be a darker rhyme or reason to my helping his precious little handmaid.” She sighs. “But there was none other than the answer I gave him, Nell Northwood. I helped you because I _care_.” Her cold fingers grip at Nell’s now, gold-and-emerald rings biting like ice. “Not just because you have been a good and loyal friend to me and mine, child… but because you are a winter rose amongst sweet summer blossoms and autumn blooms. Steadfast as ice and twice as constant, you’ll repay every kindness granted you, I have no doubt.” She casts an eye over the huddled ladies in their furs and cloaks. “Sweet summer children, the lot of them. They’ll need all the winter roses they can muster come the rise of the white winds.”

“Winter roses,” agrees Nell softly. “Wolves, too.”

Olenna Tyrell taps a varnished nail against her teacup, turns sharp gold-brown eyes back to Nell’s and gives a smile. “On that we agree, Nell Northwood.” Her voice is low and soft amongst the drifts of icy air and distant chatter. “The coin of change twists and turns alongside the seasons.” She pulls at the sable cloak, holds it close to her silk-wrapped throat. “The lion’s summer is set to die, and soon so will rose’s bloom in autumn’s bliss – winter strides mean and hungry as the hour of the wolf.” She lifts her teacup, her smile widening. “The wolf, for true… _and_ the ward at his side.”

ლ

Thanks to a pile of wine-dark cushions heaped upon his high-backed chair, Tyrion Lannister sits as tall as any of the lords about the ebony table. _A little man_ , thinks Ned as he looks at him. He has grown a thick beard of black-and-gold since Ned saw him last. The dwarf had been bundled in half a hundred furs and cloaks when he’d ridden forth from the grey stones of Winterfell bound for the Wall, near as broad in shoulder as Ned’s black-haired boy beside him. _Without sable and bearskin to pad his frame, he is but a little man_. Ned shakes his head as he thinks it. Smaller than most he may be, yet Tyrion Lannister casts a shadow just as dense as that thrown by the giant sat at the head of the ebony table. _And claws as sharp as any lion_...

Robert makes sure to grant his former good-brother guest right. He watches with his storm-blue eyes as Tyrion takes of the bread and salt arranged before him on the table, bows his head to accept a cup of wine from one of the soft-footed servants summoned from a redwood archway. As bread is broken and summerwine poured, the master of whisperers begins a steady stream of inventory and report. His voice is soft and sweet as his smile; but steel tarries in his eyes flickering as busily on the scrolls in hand as the flames flaring in the hearth. Varys reads a roll-call of soldiers gathered at Highgarden, a report of Robb’s rule at Winterfell, a review of northern bannermen returned to their seats amongst the fords and forests above the three-forked river. It is a clever show, and innocent in its telling; but Ned can see its weight register in the mismatched eyes of Tyrion Lannister. _A thinly-veiled warning, that’s what it is_ , thinks Ned. _A show of strength should the little lion choose to flex his claws in his father’s stead_ …

Tyrion Lannister is more his father’s son than the Kingslayer is, however. With the same cool detachment as the Old Lion, his dwarf son dips his head as Varys reels off yet more sums of strength and lists of men-at-arms sworn oath and sword to the king. _The coin of change is spinning fast, alliances and actions along with it_. Ned looks to the flames burning merrily in the heart as bread and salt is borne away and wine-cups are refilled. He thinks of words of frost and fire as he stares at the darkwood hearth; wisps of dreams of blood and roses as smoke lifts and billows up the chimney. _Wingbeat and wildfire, violet eyes and autumn flowers_ … He bites his lip to think how close he was to spilling secret as well as seed that night of feast and fireflame a sennight past, how desperately he wanted to tell Nell of truths that haunt him dream and day. _Not yet, not yet_ … He tears his eyes from the hearth and meets the mismatched stare of the man who rode side-by-side with Jon Snow toward the Wall and thinks of Catelyn’s ice-sharp words telling how he’d been sent into the land of always winter on a ranging.

_Might be my black-haired boy is lost to winter’s white winds as she hoped… but I’ll send a raven to Castle Black asking after him even so_.

“Master of coin?” comes a cheerful voice from atop the stack of wine-dark cushions. “A neat trick, my lords.” Tyrion Lannister gives a merry chuckle. “An honourable appointment… for an honourable hostage held to keep my lord father in check.” He surveys the small council with his mismatched eyes. “Is that not the truth of it?”

“What with our previous master of coin otherwise… _indisposed_ , the small council is keen to find a replacement,” says Varys from his seat in the shadows. “His Grace thought you well suited to the task, Lord Tyrion.”

“His Grace thought nothing of the sort,” replies Tyrion, the chuckle fading to a smile just as merry. “The king as well as half his kingdom knows well that I am gifted in _spending_ coin, not in _saving_ it.” He lifts his wine-cup, takes a sip with a thoughtful expression dappling his brow. “What would the smallfolk think of a dwarf riding their realm to debt and disorder whilst searching for a magical money tree to replenish its coffers?”

“House Tyrell has forgiven the crown’s debts,” says Mace Tyrell, tweaking the gold-wrought rose pinning his emerald doublet. “A _princely_ sum, but no price is too dear for health and happiness, daughter and dominion both.” His gold-green eyes are glittering. “House Lannister will do the same upon your swearing-in as master of coin, Lord Tyrion.”

“ _Will_ it now, Lord Tyrell?” Tyrion sets down his wine-cup and gives a wry shake of head. “My lord father will be _most_ pleased.” The merry light fades a little in his mismatched eyes. “In one fell swoop, you will strip him of silver and gold – and both sons, too.”

Ned straightens in his chair at that; Robert’s storm-blue gaze flickers to his. A hush seems to come across the council chamber now, a chill lingers despite the roaring flames licking at the hearth. The lords around the ebony table look to and from one another, confusion wrought plain on their faces. Even Varys sits still as stone in his seat of shadows, wariness narrowing his gleaming eyes. _The coin of change is spinning fast_. Ned hears his own heartbeat ring in his ears. _So fast even a spider cannot keep up, it seems_ … Thoughts of the ice of the north burn up as new wood to the fire; Ned looks with all the others to the spectacle before them: the giant facing down the dwarf.

“ _Both_ sons?” asks Robert, his voice low thunder in a room of wide looks and whispers. “What do you mean by that, my lord?”

Shadows pass across Tyrion Lannister’s face, darkness lingers in his eyes: green and black, both glaring. “Is this some jape or jest?” he says quietly. “A dozen ravens were sent out, from Casterly Rock and Riverrun both.”

“What was their message?” asks Ned softly.

“My brother is dead,” says Tyrion, rough as the smoke clawing up through the chimney. “Half the guardsmen who brought him forth along the River Road perished, too.” He looks about the sea of shocked faces and spreads his hands. “A flux or a flu, nobody can say for sure what sickness took them.” He glances at Ned now, sorrow wrought on his face. “But they are sure of one thing, my lords: Riverrun was its source.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The mockingbird’s song is long since silenced, but a new tune rises in its stead: a song of sorrow. Secrets, sickness, seasons – all spin with the coin of change, catching stag, wolf, ward, spider, rose, and lion up in its storm…  
>  **NB** : things were going _so_ sweetly last chapter… sorry!


	18. Mother's Song

Frost has fallen thick as snow overnight, turning the cityscape something foreign: all ivory curves and bone-white towers catching soft dawn light and turning to pearl beneath the heavy clouds. Even with a fire banked in the hearth, the little room midway up the Tower of the Hand is cold as the world without. Quiet, too, save for the crackle of fireflame and the sweet song of a blackbird perched on the window-ledge. Nell listens to its tune for a time and wonders how it can sing so sweet when a blanket of sorrow falls thick as the frost upon keep and castle. She dresses quickly, layer after layer of chemise and velvet and heavy wool, sealing the chill of her skin within fire-warmed bodice and cloak. She shifts her hips to tie the laces of her skirts and winces; Ned took her fiercely yester-eve and now she aches. _But so does he_ , she thinks as she stares with sadness at his down-turned lips soft in sleep. _He aches and broods and breaks_.

A feast was planned to celebrate Tyrion Lannister’s swearing-in as the new master of coin, but then the dwarf spilled news of sickness and sorrow. Pumpkin soup and black bread was served in the small hall instead; not one of the Hand’s household took a single sip or bite. Arya stared at her plate, trying to hide her tears. Septa Mordane took her bowl with her to spend the night kneeling before the Mother’s altar in the castle sept. Jory Cassel kept his men quiet with looks black as the bread they broke. _And Ned, sweet Ned_ … He sat stony-eyed at the head of the trestle table, knuckles white from the hard grip he kept on the silver-plated lord’s cup. His grip was just as hard come nightfall as he bolted the door to Nell’s little room and tried to burn up despair and fear as a wolf would: fast, fierce, frantic, _bruising_. She thought he would cry when he finished and saw the red marks he left on her skin; instead the tears froze in his grey eyes and he wearily laid his head in her lap, fell to sleep with her hand gripped in his. _Forgive me_ , he whispered. Nell smooths the dark hair back from his brow now, presses a kiss there.

“There is nothing to forgive, my love,” she whispers.

She leaves him sleeping softly beneath the sweet song of the blackbird on the window-ledge. Distantly, she hears movement above and below: maids relighting the torches in their sconces, men making ready the small hall for the morning meal, the steward calling soft orders after them. She gives a gentle knock to Arya’s door, opens it to find the chamber empty. Half-slept in, by the looks of it, twisted bedsheets, furs tossed on the floor, a chest left open; dawn light catches the silver blade of Needle nestled amongst the summer gowns and linen shifts. Nell picks clothes up as she goes, draws the bed straight, shuts the oaken lid of the clothes chest, sealing the silver sword safe inside. Then she turns and pulls the door closed behind her, slips quietly down the tower’s stone stair and emerges into the icy world without.

Nell finds Arya on the battlements overlooking the wide black sweep of the Blackwater Rush. She has cloak and boots on, but bare legs turned to prickles by the chill of the morning. They swing back and forth vigorously as the girl sits on the pale crimson wall and stares out over the river. Quietly, Nell comes up to sit beside her. Arya does not turn to look or smile; but her hand creeps out from the folds of her cloak and grips tight her handmaid’s fingers. She has on only her linen nightshift beneath the heavy grey-and-white cloak; Nell frowns to see her shiver.

“What are you doing out here before the dawn, Arya Stark?” she asks softly.

“Listening,” says Arya, her voice almost a whisper.

“Listening for what, sweet one?”

“Mother’s song.” Her eyes are soft grey, damp with tears. “I can’t hear it, Nell.” She grips tighter, her lip trembling. “Why can’t I _hear_ it?” She scowls as a blot of tears falls the long line of her cheek. “The bailey boys were right… Tyrion Lannister brings Doom with him wherever he goes.”

“True enough,” murmurs Nell, looking out to the river. “Doom to his own house, Arya Stark. It is the Young Lion who has fallen to flux or flu… not your lady mother.”

“She’s sick, though,” retorts Arya, staring furiously at the sweep of riverwater, at the tiny boats that bob its currents. “ _Very_ sick, I saw so much when I read Uncle Edmure’s letter. He says the maester bleeds her and gives her balms, but that she shakes and shivers.” She bites her lip, sets her jaw to look a copy of her storm-eyed father as she turns to Nell. “I think I would like to hear a lullaby, Nellie… _please_.”

Arya Stark, wild wolf-pup that she is, curls like a cat against her handmaid, buries her face in the heavy wool of a cloak the same colours as her own. Nell feels an ache set deep in her heart as Ned’s thumbprints on her ribs. Softly, she rocks the little body shuddering with sobs, and lets her voice fall sweet and low from her throat.

“ _Hush, hush, time to be sleeping_

_Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping_

_Dreams of peace and of freedom_

_So smile in your sleep, bonny baby_.”

Arya doesn’t give that soft little laugh at the sound of her handmaid’s lullaby; but she lifts her face from the cloak’s folds and shows a smile almost as sweet. They sit for half the morning, wolf-pup and handmaid, leant against each other, eyes fixed on the drifting swell of the Blackwater, the boats turning its rush to white-tipped waves. Slowly, the ivory world turns pale pink and crimson as frost gives way to sunlight. A blackbird lands on a ledge beneath them; its song drifts sweetly to bleed with the sorrow of a soft-sung lullaby.

ლ

Ned curses the blackbird’s song when he wakes, heavy-eyed and aching, finding cold sheets in place of a warm waist beside him in the little red-curtained bed. He curses that, too, as he finds a boot amongst the furs of the bed and throws it across the room. With a soft thud, it hits the leaded glass of the window, scattering the blackbird and its sweet little song. _Let it sing somewhere else_ , he thinks with quiet fury. _I’ll have silence and sorrow in place of sweetness_. The fire burns well in the hearth, but he is cold as the ice mixing with blood in his veins. He sits up wearily, runs a hand over the tight skin beneath his eyes, and wants Nell’s soft thumbs to soothe the sting of its ache. He feels a stab of shame flare white-hot against the ice of his blood at that. _My lady wife shivers on her sickbed, I’ll have silence and sorrow in place of soft touches_. He grimaces to remember touches anything but soft yester-eve; works his jaw beneath his beard to think of the red marks blooming like autumn flowers on Nell’s bone-white skin. _Am I wolf or man?_

He asked himself the same as he sat the small council yesterday. If not for guest right, Ned would have gladly struck Tyrion Lannister for the news of sickness and sorrow he loosed across the ebony table. The new master of coin spoke only truth, but that did not dull its sting. _Black and white and grey_ , thinks Ned as he gets up from clinging furs and sleep-tossed sheets. _All the shades of truth_ … He feels the sting of each and every now, a dozen dagger-strokes to his ribs. He rifles through the ironwood chest at the foot of Nell’s bed, finds a shirt she’s filched and pulls it over his head, hunting for breeches and boots amongst the scatter of bearskins on the flagstones. He takes his quilted tunic from the chair she hung it on yester-eve and laces it with rough fingers, covering the stinging dagger-strokes at his ribs with layers of linen and velvet. _Am I wolf or man?_ As he catches sight of wild black beard and storm-grey eyes in the looking glass, he wonders at the answer. _Both_ , he decides, _but one is always fighting to win against the other_ …

Ned lets the wolf win this morrow as he tears up the stone steps of the rookery and takes Pycelle to task. The old man swallows his tongue in his haste to gabber some explanation as to why the ravens did not reach the Red Keep half a moon ago. Bad weather, misdirection, boys throwing stones… Ned grits his teeth and wants to growl, but he lets man win out over wolf for a moment. His voice is cool and calm as he can make it; he watches the Grand Maester copy out two letters and send out two ravens. _Dark wings, dark words_. Ned watches them take wing and drift across a cityscape still limned in frost and ivory light. _North and north: one to the Barrowlands, one to Castle Black_. Both letters are clear as crystal, cold as ice: Rickon will turn tail and scamper back up the Kingsroad to Winterfell; rangers will be sent out to find a black-haired boy wandering lost the land of always winter. _Black and white and grey_. The ravens are charcoal in a world of pearl, dipping beyond the banked clouds. _All the shades of truth_ … Ned leaves Pycelle tripping over his own feet in his haste to bow, threads his way back down the twists of the rookery.

As the sun crests the sky and bleeds chill light onto the cobblestones of the middle bailey, Ned spars with Robert as if they were still boys at the Eyrie. A group of men-at-arms gathers to watch, giving clap and cheer as the fight grows more ferocious. Robert is dense and deadly, raining blows to dent oaken shield with a sword bandied heavy as his warhammer. Ned is not half the swordsman as his king, but he is as efficient as he is determined, fighting with the grimness of winter storm that lights his eyes. It is a fair fight, both men stepping quickly and slashing quietly, but Ned wins out the final sword-song: a grim little swipe that makes Robert’s knees go from under him.

“Crafty bastard,” says Robert with good humour, grasping Ned’s hand and hauling himself upright. “Mayhap you should cut the direwolf from your banner and sew a fox in its stead.” They laugh at that, before Robert clasps Ned’s arm. “Any word of your lady wife?”

Ned feels the warmth of swordplay leave his blood sudden as a storm. “Her brother sent word half a moon ago,” he says quietly. “It arrived only yester-eve… Pycelle gave me some excuse of bad weather to explain why a flight that should’ve taken scarce two days took two full weeks.” His eyes are shaded beneath heavy brows. “Edmure Tully wrote of his father’s death from a flux or flu, and said Catelyn was took to bed with the same.” He worries at his lip. “Two full weeks… who can say how she fares now?”

Robert doesn’t offer smile or sweet word to match the cursed blackbird’s song. He claps Ned on the shoulder with a brotherly look, and then delivers a stinging blow to Ned’s belly with the flat of his sword. Grinning, he draws back with raised blade and gives a fat chuckle to see Ned surge forward furiously, his own sword raised. The claps and cheers mix with laughter as king and hand fight like boys in the Vale; Ned feels some of the ice melt again in his blood. _Let sorrow sing somewhere else for a time_ , he thinks as he moves lithe as a wolf around the middle bailey. _I’ll have steel and sword-song in its place_.

It works for a time: the clash of steel and the cry of soldiers drowning out the swirl of fear and fury turning Ned’s belly to flame. But the day grows dark as raven’s wings; swords are put away and men disperse as shadows. Ned mounts the winding stone stair of the Tower of the Hand, pauses outside Arya’s room to hear the soft drifts of a lullaby warm as woodsmoke on the air. _Hush, hush, time to be sleeping_. He hums it beneath his breath as he steps past softly. _Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping_. He knows he should keep climbing, thread his way to the tower’s top, shut the door to the lord’s bedchamber and sleep alone in his great bed. _My lady wife shivers on her sickbed, I’ll have silence and sorrow in place of soft touches_ … But the threat of dreams hangs heavy as death; he fears news of both. _Wingbeat and wildfire, violet eyes and autumn flowers_ … He shuts himself within Nell’s little room instead, sits staring at the flames burning merrily in the hearth and wills such threats of dreams and death to join the smoke billowing up the chimney.

They linger knife-sharp as pinpricks pulling aches amongst his ribs till the door opens and Nell steps in, cheeks winter-bright, eyes blue as wildflowers in the soft light of the fireflame. _Am I wolf or man?_ He knows the answer in an instant: man again, now that it is just she and he. Ned crumples almost immediately, the strength flooding from him with the fear and fury that has carried him through the day. He is bone-tired and weary; but beneath the soft tread of her palms, he is warm again. He lifts the silk of her chemise as they lie together in her little red-curtained bed, his fingers tracing the red marks blooming like autumn flowers on her bone-white skin. He kisses every petal of every flower, soothes the sting of each bruise that blossoms between her ribs – as her soft thumbs and gentle words soothe the sting of dreams and day.

“I’ve sent word to make sure Rickon makes it safely home,” whispers Ned, his fingers smoothing through the silk of her hair. “Word to Castle Black, too.” She lifts her head from his chest and searches his eyes. “I mean to find out what has happened to Jon, press the black brothers to make move to bring him back behind the Wall.” He trails a finger over her plush lips and frowns. “Cat wished him dead when she told me of his ranging. What if he sits as sick as she in the land of always winter?”

“He’s a good boy,” murmurs Nell, smoothing her cheek back against his chest, her fingers light upon the hard muscles of his belly. “A strong boy… he’s faced things far colder than winter’s white winds.” She taps the tune of her lullaby against his skin as they think of much the same: Tully eyes tearing sharp as ice at a bastard boy. “He’ll come back, sure as snow falls thick and free at home.”

“Snow,” muses Ned, feeling the pull of sleep as Nell smooths her lullaby upon his skin. “Snow thick and free as the secrets we keep.” He sighs, breathes deep her scent of winter and wildflowers. “So many secrets, and now sickness and sorrow.” Her tapping has stopped, but he is too sleep-heavy to notice. “It’s a wonder we are not drowned by it all.”

ლ

Frost falls again with the night, but the world is not ivory and bone-white as it was this morrow. Instead, it is silver-flame as Nell makes her way to the godswood. Above, the sky is speckled with half a thousand stars; below, the russet-green leaves are limned moonlit pearl. They rustle and creak as soft-stepped boots move through them, carving a way between thatches of elm and alder and black cottonwood. Nell passes the tumbledown archways of a long-forgotten altar to the old gods; leaves fall around it, silent as wraiths of smoke and shadow. She thinks of Winterfell as she walks: of the deep black pool, of red-gold leaves drifting and twisting, of the weirwood tree rising up like a skeleton in the dark. She shudders and pulls the fur-trim of her cloak up around her throat.

A dream gripped her as she slept in Ned’s arms, slipped before her eyes soft as wormwood petals in her palm. _A dream of red and white and black_. She remembers the jagged line of crimson mountains, rose petals strewn across a blood-streaked sky, solemn eyes bursting like purple flowers in the dark of a ruined tower. _A dream of blood and roses, an oath of storm and violet_ … It shook her awake and sent her from the warmth of her bed to seek the quiet chill of this holy grove. Steady and silent as a shadow, the great heart tree of oak rises up like a sentinel to guard the white-streaked world where gods and men come to meet. She makes for it and curls against its bark, her fingers tracing the slashed lines of eyes and mouth where they burst beneath twists of smokeberry vines and falling leaves.

Nell sits a while with the hard comfort of the heart tree at her back. The world is black and white and grey in the moonlight, but here and there a drift of colour catches her eye: ironweed, clover, rock roses trailing and twisting tumbledown walls and dark trunks in tendrils of purple and yellow. _Flowers of autumn, soft as secrets_ … She feels something like bile rise in her throat, cold and creeping. It takes her a moment to realise it is sadness and soon enough it floods her eyes and stains her cheeks. _Soon to die in winter’s white winds_. She rocks against the heart tree of oak and draws out the bluestone vial from the pocket of her gown.

She turns it this way and that in the light of moon and star. Silver shadows chase up and down the vial, sending threads of glitter to prickle amongst the pale blue body. She unstops the cork and the scent fills her nose: a scent as bittersweet as love and death. _A drop of pennyroyal, a spoon of honey, a mix of mint and tansy and wormwood_ … The tears are thick and heavy in her throat now. She chokes and coughs angrily, biting her lip to stem their flow as she swirls the moon tea in its prison of starlit bluestone. She watches it slip and buck against the lip of the vial and thinks back to the first time she drank of a woodwitch’s brew. _A lifetime ago_ , she thinks, remembering the black spits of rock and the salt sea that swirled around them, the green-white lichen peppering the dripping towers and bridges of Pyke, the hands slithering cold as kelp down her bodice. A sob wracks her shoulders now and her belly burns as it did the day she sent Balon Greyjoy’s seed tumbling from her womb. She had run from that place of salt and storm, but the bittersweet taste of tansy tea followed her home to Winterfell. Maester Luwin had caught her once grinding up the wormwood that grew against the mossy walls of the godswood; he had led her with a soft hand and helped her with pity and kindness twinkling his gaze.

_So many secrets, and now sickness and sorrow_ … Nell shivers amongst the russet-green leaves limned moonlit pearl. _It’s a wonder we are not drowned by them all_ … She sets her face, huddles into her cloak: she won’t be drowned by them, nor will she let them drown all she holds dear. She thinks of them all as she sits in the shadows of the heart tree: Sansa drawn-faced with worry, Arya scowling with grief at the river, Septa Mordane on her knees even now in the sept, Jory and his men black-eyed as their bread, Ned halfway between wolf and man wild with worry, frantic with fear. She wonders beyond keep and castle now, thinks of snow and ice half a kingdom away: a black-haired boy stormy as the land of always winter he is lost in. _They will need me_. She knows it in her heart, in her belly, in every beat of blood. _As ship of iron, I will sail them safe from the sea of secrets and sickness and sorrow that threatens to drown them_ …

“Is this what it means to be a handmaid of the salt winds?” whispers Nell softly to herself as she raises the bluestone vial and watches it glimmer in the moonlight. “Is this what the gods have given me grace and courage to do?” She bites her lip and leans her head back against the heart tree. Her eyes light on the pale sphere looming heavy over the trees of elm and alder and black cottonwood; she narrows her gaze at it. “Three times I have drunk back your tea as if it were honey-wine.” Her voice trembles. “Once for hate and once for fear and once for duty.” She raises the bluestone vial toward the moon in a sad little toast and smiles mournfully. “Will it be four now for love?”

_A drop of pennyroyal, a spoon of honey, a mix of mint and tansy and wormwood_ … The bittersweet taste cloys and clots on her tongue; she sinks it back. The bluestone vial is still trembling against her lips when a growl echoes through the moonlit leaves and swirls around her heart like smoke. “ _Nell_!” She twists against the heart tree and turns wide eyes to see him blundering through leaf-mould and curling smokeberry vines toward her. Fury darkens his gaze. “For love?” His voice is deathly quiet and full of pain. “For _love_?”

Nell rises from her crook of roots and watches him halt before her. Ned stares down at her, the leaves and moonlight sending dapples of silver and shadow across his tense face. He is breathing hard through his nose and his eyes are dark with storm – but he sees the tears chasing her cheeks and the flare goes from his shoulders. He makes to speak, but Nell puts a hand softly to his lips and shakes her head.

“Near ten years, I have been yours, Ned Stark,” she says quietly, her eyes luminous in the ivory light slipping through leaf and bough. “Near ten years, I have worn your silver and sung your song and taken your seed.” Her eyes harden now and a half-smile twists on her soft lips. “Near ten years, I have made honour a stone that sinks fast in the salt sea… yet what I have seen all that time has made me think that there is more honour in keeping some secrets hidden.” She finds his hand beneath the folds of his cloak and holds it lightly. “I watched your children grow with the love of their mother burning fierce and red and rich as her hair. She set them on her knee when they fell, she sang them sweet songs when they could not sleep, she laughed and she smiled and she span them about keep and castle.” Nell’s eyes are glittering with fierce tears now.

“Yet a black-haired boy sat always apart from his siblings of red hair and blue Tully eyes. He was a shadow in the snow and your lady wife made him a stranger amongst the stones of his home.” A tear winds down her cheek. “When my lady wasn’t looking, I took Jon Snow’s little hand and led him through keep and castle. I set him on my knee when he fell, I sang him sweet songs when he could not sleep, I laughed and smiled with him till those solemn eyes turned bright.” Her fine black brows flicker with pain and grief. “It was what I lived for those first years when Winterfell was a stranger to me – a chance to see that sad little boy smile just for a moment.” Anger flashes in her stormy eyes now. “She took me from him as soon as she chanced to find out… she told me I was brought from my home of black rock and storm to be her handmaid, not a bastard’s nursemaid.” The fury quiets in her gaze and her shoulders sag. “In that moment, I made a promise I’ve kept ever since.”

“What promise was that, Nell Northwood?” asks Ned, his voice as quiet and raw as the grief turning his eyes to silver-flame.

“That a cup of woodwitch’s brew was a better fate than a wife’s kindness,” says Nell, her fingers curling tight on his. “I’ve kept that promise these nine years past, Ned Stark.” Her eyes flash on his. “Once for hate and once for fear and once for duty.” She sighs and shudders angrily. “I faltered each time where I sat beneath the weirwood tree with silver song and sadness dying on my lips… but each time I thought of those solemn little eyes bursting like purple flowers in the dark and I drank hale and hearty.”

Ned is silent for a long while, his grey eyes staring hard at her, his hand a tight grip on her fingers. “I made a promise to you as well, Nell Northwood,” he says finally, his voice rough. “No more moon tea.” His hand rises to cup her cheek and he looks at her with desperate eyes as his thumb whispers across her full lips. “My love, no more moon tea.”

“I can’t,” whispers Nell, her voice breaking along with her heart. “I can’t, Ned. I can’t bear your babe to see her swept into the power games of man and wife. I can’t – I _won’t_.” Her eyes are wild as the sea, tears spill down her cheeks. “I may be a whore and a harlot. I may be a seawitch and a siren… but I am a handmaid second, and a woman first.” Her jaw sets taut and trembling. “Some secrets are best kept hidden – else they drown us all in a tide of sickness and sorrow.”

His hands knot into the gown at her hips and pull her roughly to him. He wraps his arms around her and holds her flush against him. Their warmth bleeds and burns in the chill moonlight of the godswood; their eyes dance and dip and drink each other. He rests his forehead to her own and she feels the tension of his body curl around her hot as fire. His eyes are edged and his lip trembles.

“I made a promise half a lifetime ago to keep a secret,” breathes Ned, so soft and swift she strains to hear him. “A bed of blood, a storm of rose petals… an oath of violet eyes that haunts me still.” Tears drip from his eyes and land cold and quick as ice on her cheeks. “All my life I have carried the weight of that promise, Nell.” He shudders in her arms and his frown twists against her brow. “I gave my word as a Stark of Winterfell to a person I loved more than anyone and I have kept my word.” His voice is thick beneath the weight of tears. “Over the years, I have let that promise entangle _everything_ : happiness, love, belonging, family. It has grown unruly as smokeberry vines and strangled the joy of the very thing I promised to protect.” He presses a kiss to her brow and then meets her eyes with a fierceness she has never seen before. “I won’t let that happen again, Nell, I _won’t_.” He rubs his nose gently against hers, tears bleeding salt and sweet down her skin. “So no more moon tea, my love… please, no more moon tea.”

Nell sees the truth of her dream reflected in his eyes now. _A dream of red and white and black_. Crimson mountains, scattered petals across a blood-streaked sky, a lord on his knees beside a bed of blood. She thinks of solemn eyes bursting like purple flowers in the dark. She thinks of a plump little hand clutching her own as she sang and span and smiled to lift some joy from a shadow in the snow. Her head is a swirl of smoke and blood and roses and silver song. _An oath of violet storm_ …

“A shadow in the snow,” whispers Nell, her voice cracked and aching as she stares into those deep grey eyes. “A stranger amongst the stones of home… a solemn little boy.” She hears her heartbeat in her ears; Ned breathes quick and sharp. “The thing you promised to protect?” His nod is so slight she wonders if his head moved at all, but she reads the truth in his eyes; they seek hers desperately. “Your secrets are your own, my love, and that is how they will stay for as long as they must – a Stark of Winterfell always keeps his word.” Moonlight dances across her cheeks as she sets her jaw. “But to add another life to the sea of secrets and sorrow and sickness we sail… it would tear out my heart and make me a bed of blood of my very own.” Her eyes are blue flame in the silver light. “I won’t see my flesh and blood live as a shadow in the snow, Ned. I won’t see another child sent to fight the white winds of winter with no idea of the womb that bore him.” She runs her fingers over the wild black beard and her voice is softer now. “You have your promises, my love, and I have mine… once for hate, once for fear, once for duty, and once for love.”

His eyes are raw and rough with grief as his words were; but he lowers himself around her and draws her into his warmth. She rubs her cheek into the fur-trim of his cloak as she is like to do whenever safe in the shelter of his arms. The bluestone vial falls empty to the ground. They stand and sway a moment in the moonlit godswood as ghosts and shadowy promises flit around them quick and soft as the falling leaves. His hand finds her chin and tips her face up to look at him. She meets his eyes and he kisses her, soft and slow and sweet. It tastes of honey and mint and tansy; he draws back and shudders.

“It was Lyanna in that bed of blood, Nell,” whispers Ned, his voice a crack of sadness. “It was my sweet sister that I knelt beside and took a promise from.” His jaw works beneath his wild black beard; his eyes are grey-white on hers. “She had a crown of winter roses in her lap and in her arms… in her arms…”

Nell rises up on tiptoe and puts her mouth to his. He kisses her; the salt of tears mixes with the bittersweet taste of tansy and honey. She leans back from his lips, her hands rising to cup his face. _Gone is lord and husband and father and brother_ , she thinks as her heart breaks. _Here stands my Ned, bare and broken before me, my sweet Ned who needs me now as they all need me_. She watches him as grief writs its ache plain across his face, as his eyes burst with light and panic. He sags against her, his forehead resting heavy on her own, his arms a crush around her waist. She threads herself around him, her fingers moving from his hair to clutch at his shoulders, her cheek tucked firm against his heart. She rocks him as he buries his face in the curve of her neck.

“Just tell me one thing, Ned Stark, and tell me true,” says Nell softly, her fingers unfurling against his back. “Does the black-haired boy that fights the white winds of winter beyond the Wall know who he is?” She feels him shudder in her arms; their faces level and their eyes meet. “Does Jon Snow know of the fire that pulses with ice in his veins?”

“Nobody can ever know,” breathes Ned, gripping her cheek in one of his great hands. “I gave my word to Lyanna in her bed of blood.” He stares at her fiercely, his thumb running firm along her cheekbone. “I swore an oath of violet storm.” They stare at each other in the moonlit grove and both think of much the same: a dream of red and white and black, wraiths and shadows, blood and roses, solemn eyes bursting like purple flowers in the dark of a half-crumbled tower. “A Stark of Winterfell always keeps his word.”

Nell grips his hand where it rests on her cheek. “True enough, Ned Stark,” she whispers, fire burning with tansy tea in her belly. “A Stark of Winterfell need only kiss a handmaid of the salt winds to seal her silence… and she will surge as silent and strong as the sunset sea at his side.”

Ned lowers his face, his starlit eyes alive with half a hundred emotions: love and grief and sadness and relief. He kisses her, slow and soft and sad and sweet; she tastes of silver light and fireflame and meadowsweets and _life_. He drinks her in and fights from the demons that haunt him in dreams and day. Her hands stroke the dark hair back from his brow; he shudders to feel her touch.

“So many secrets,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping through the black silk of her hair. “And now sickness and sorrow.” He rests his brow to hers and closes his eyes, breathing in her scent of wildflowers and winter. “I fear we will be drowned by it all.”

“I am ironborn and iron-hard, Ned Stark,” whispers Nell, her fingers gliding to settle at the nape of his neck. “I’ll never let you drown… as long as I live, I’ll keep us _all_ above the water.” He blinks open his eyes and gazes down at her. “I promise, my love.” She smiles at him and takes his lips with her own, soft and slow. “I promise.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Verse lifted from the beautiful Gaelic lullaby _Smile in Your Sleep_.  
> 2\. _Black and white and grey_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 43: Eddard XI.  
> 3\. _A drop of pennyroyal_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Storm of Swords_ Chapter 80: Sansa VII.  
> 4\. A song of three: secrets, sickness, and sorrow. Have strength – it will get sourer still before it grows sweet again…  
>  **NB** : apologies for such a mammoth chapter, I had thought to have the final section as a separate chapter, but decided it fitted much better here. Hope you’ve struggled through!


	19. Wraith

Ned wakes to the song of a blackbird, but he does not curse or hunt out a boot amongst the furs of the bed. He lets it sing; it sounds almost sweet. _Sweet as dreamless sleep_ , he thinks. _Sweet as secrets set free as autumn flowers to drift upon the wind_ … He looks down at Nell still soft in sleep, her lashes swept down upon her cheeks, her hair a cloud of ink bleeding across the pillows. He passes a skein of its silk through his fingers now, watches in wonder as the dawn light shines dragonglass to embers. Red and yellow, it turns black silk bright as the fire flickering in the hearth. _Wingbeat and wildfire_. For a moment, panic seizes him, makes his breath come quick and sharp. _Promise me, Ned_ … Black silk slips through his fingers and he gives a low sound in his throat.

Nell wakes in an instant, turns sleep-heavy eyes to look upon him: blue-grey and blinking wide as they take in his face. She struggles up from the clinging sheets and tangled furs, reaching for him as he reaches for her. He falls against her with another whimper, bearing her back down upon the bed with his head to her bosom. She lies quietly beneath the weight of him, stroking his dark hair, smoothing it against the nape of his neck. He buries his face between her breasts, breathes deep the scent of her: that heady perfume of scented oil, flowers and sweetness that is Nell’s and Nell’s alone. He can hear her heartbeat against his cheek: slow and steady – a wave of calm that washes over him sure as the sea. _Soon enough sickness and sorrow will sweep back amongst this wave of calm_. He breathes a sigh and nestles closer to her. _But not yet, not yet_ …

“Was it a dream?” asks Nell, her fingers running feather-light across the hard muscles of his upper back. “Last night in the godswood… did I dream it, Ned Stark?”

“No,” murmurs Ned against her skin, his every word a kiss. “No, my love.” He raises his head and looks up at her with storm-grey eyes. “One day I’ll tell you all about her, Nell. About her and he and how my black-haired boy came to be.” He lays his cheek back against her heart and closes his eyes. “One day, love.”

He lets her up only after he has passed thumbs and mouth both over the red marks still blooming like autumn flowers on her bone-white skin. _Am I wolf or man?_ He wonders it again as he tastes the fading bruises his hard grip left on her ribs the night Tyrion Lannister spilled news of sickness and sorrow upon the ebony table of the council chamber. _Both, but one is always fighting to win against the other_ … He looks up at her with hunger turning his eyes dark as smoke; he kisses his way up over her ribs, trails his tongue the curve of her throat, sinks his mouth onto hers. She kisses him soft and slow before drawing back with a smile and shake of her head. He frowns at the sadness in her eyes, his fingers sweeping the tight plain of her belly, before it hits him like a dagger in the ribs and he flushes with shame at his hunger. _Moon tea_ , he remembers. _Misery and moon tea, the sum of her life with me_.

“Ned Stark.” Her voice is a velvet warning as she reads the thoughts clear as day lighting his grey eyes. “Enough, love… _enough_.” Her fingers slip into his dark hair, pull him down for a kiss that lingers sweet as the blackbird’s song at the window. “Stop blushing like a maid in springtime and put on your lord’s face.” They smile at each other, bittersweet. “Secrets sailed with the moon yester-eve… but sickness and sorrow rise again with the sun.” She strokes the tight skin beneath his eyes, soothes the sting away with her thumbs. “Time enough for us to get up and meet it, Ned Stark.”

Still, he lingers once they have climbed from the clinging sheets of her little red-curtained bed and found their clothes from chest and chair. _Soon enough sickness and sorrow will sweep amongst this wave of calm_. He stands behind her before the looking glass as she steps into the skirts of her gown: thick velvet in the grey-and-white of their house. _But not yet, not yet_ … She smiles knowingly at him as he tightens the laces of her bodice, ties them tight, smooths her sleeves, tweaks her skirts. Finally, her laughter stops sweet as it begun and she meets his eyes in the looking glass: blue-grey and brilliant, they send him on his way. He kisses her throat, arches into the fingers she runs back through his beard, and then leaves her standing before the looking glass with a sad little smile on her face.

He sets his own face unsmiling as he pushes through the brass-fitted doors of the Tower of the Hand and steps upon the cobbles of the middle bailey. _Am I wolf or man?_ He catches the eyes of a few guardsmen in black-and-gold milling the curtain wall; they turn away hastily, square-shouldered, pikes straight-set. _Wolf, then_ , he decides. _Wolf until this sorry sea of sickness and sorrow has been sailed clear_. He may have slept soundly for the first time in near twenty years, but life is not so sweet as the blackbird’s song that woke him this morrow. It is slippery and sharp as the ice-edged cobbles he crosses toward the council chamber – as apt to trip a man as it is to set him right. _Not a wolf, though_ , thinks Ned, his steps sure and swift even as the gold-cloaks slide and curse atop the curtain wall. _A wolf I’ll be until this sorry sea of sickness and sorrow has been sailed easy as pawprints across an icy yard_ …

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Sunlight slips soft as secrets through bare branch and falling leaf as Nell makes a slow path through the godswood. Frost lingers on the autumn flowers clinging to trunk and tumbledown wall; but without the silver-flame of moonlight, they glow like licks of flame in the yellow rays peeking through the half-empty canopy. _Ice and fire_ , thinks Nell as she picks a rock rose from its stem. _Sweet as song, soft as secrets_ … The rose is pale blue as those that grow in the glass house at Winterfell: ice-edged and ice-cold as she lifts it to her nose and breathes its scent. She gazes at it a moment, feels it soft as wormwood petals in her palm, and thinks on how such a sweet flower of frost could so change the world. _A crown of winter roses, a bed of blood, a black-haired boy beyond the Wall_ … She firms her lips and fights the shadows of secrets from her head. Ned trusted to tell her a truth he has kept through dream and day all his life; she will leave knowledge of it to spin as a wraith with the leaves that fell in the moonlight of its telling.

Russet-green leaves still drift and twist as she walks this morrow, limned now by chill sunlight in place of silver-flame. Nell watches them fall steadily to the forest floor, scattering blood-red over soil dark with frost. Her boots cut softly through their banks and piles, rustling with the thick velvet of her grey-and-white gown. She strokes the soft-spun skirts, thinks of the grey stones of Winterfell, and the bone-white weirwood tree at its heart. _A royal decree – and a wedding before a heart tree_ … Quick and sharp, a king’s kind words cut as a curse. She feels them land as dagger-points between her ribs, blooming bright as the bruises Ned left that night Tyrion Lannister spun a song of sickness and sorrow to the small council. Catelyn Stark sickens, she shivers and sweats and calls for her father, Edmure Tully wrote as much. _Does she call for her husband, too?_ Nell wonders it as she dips through the sway of elm and alder and black cottonwood bright with frost and pale sunlight. _Does she call for Ned?_ She knows the answer even now, it strikes her heart with a dull ache. _No_ , decides Nell. _She called for home in husband’s stead, and now the three-forked river welcomes her back with watery arms and constant heart_.

Life seemed sweet as the blackbird’s song that woke her this morrow before Robert spoke his promise amongst feast and fireflame. _A royal decree – and a wedding before a heart tree_ … She can still see Ned’s face dappled in a frown as he turned her about the flagstones that eve, as he counted the steps and remembered the turns of a country dance. _We moved in sunlight that night and it was enough – until a king’s kind words cut as a curse_. Now she moves in the shadows of the godswood, seething because Robert’s promise awoke something in her that night she never knew resided in her blood and bones and belly: the want for _more_ , the want for a life in sunlight, the want for a life out of the shadows of secrets and shame. Even as she thinks it, she feels white-hot guilt turn her blood to flame. _A king’s kind curse, a prayer for more… is that what set my lady to shiver in her sickbed?_

“Do you come to pray, Nellie?” asks a soft voice from amongst the trees. “I’ve always favoured Mother’s gods… but perhaps Father’s will listen to me, too.”

Nell looks to where Sansa sits in the crooked roots of the heart tree, her green-and-gold gown spilling out bright as spring over a forest of frost and ice. The russet-green leaves catch and drift on copper curls, twine the shoulders of a heavy emerald cloak pinned by a wrought-gold rose. She is pale-faced with dark shadows beneath those sapphire eyes; but she holds out her hand to Nell and gives a smile sweet as blackbird’s song.

“Come sit with me,” says Sansa, pulling Nell down gently by the hand. “I have been here half the night, thinking on many things.” Her grip is light even as she worries her shell-pink lip. “You called me a winter rose the morrow of my wedding – and I _feel_ like one, Nell.” Her eyes are Tully blue and bright with tears. “I feel as cold as one, as apt to turn to frost and ice and crack beneath fear’s fingertips.”

Sansa cries then, pitching against her handmaid as she did when she was scarce higher than Nell’s hip. She buries her face as she did when she was a frightened child: against the soft swell of Nell’s bosom, clutching with desperate fingers at folds of cloak and gown, her slim shoulders shuddering with sobs. Nell holds her close, her hands whispering over the copper curls, stroking them smooth down shaking shoulders, rocking the woman in green-and-gold who is suddenly a girl again.

“You _are_ a winter rose, Sansa Stark,” whispers Nell fiercely, her fingers lost in hair red and rich as fire. “But you are fire, too, and ice and storm and silk – let no sea of sickness and sorrow tell you different.” She presses a kiss to the flaming curls. “You may not be as wild as your sister, but you have a strength in you as sure as she does. It burns bright as your hair, my heart, fierce and true as fireflame – no sea of sickness and sorrow can put it out. Believe me, Sansa Stark.”

“I wanted to hate you, Nell,” murmurs Sansa suddenly, gripping tight to her handmaid as tears make her voice rich and thick. “When I read that letter sealed with Tully wax… when I read how the maester bleeds my lady mother and gives her balms – when I read that she grows still worse.” Her throat cracks. “When I sat beneath this tree all night and half the dawn, thinking that she may die… I wanted to hate you, Nellie.”

Nell keeps her eyes fixed on the drifts of yellow and purple and white trailing trunk and tumbledown wall: ironweed, clover, rock roses twisting stone and bough as tight as the thread of fear bounding her heart. _Flowers of autumn, soft as secrets_ … Her hand is still amongst the copper curls; her heart fast as a blackbird’s wings in flight. _One soon to be set free as the other as petals to the wind_ … Sansa burrows further into Nell; fingers resume their steady stroking of hair red and rich as fire.

“You can hate me, my heart,” whispers Nell, her voice as broken as her heart. “By every god, old and new, you can hate me.” She feels tears of her own start down her cheeks. “But know I’ll always love you, Sansa Stark, even if you send me away, even if you spit at me or strike me… I’ll love you all the same.”

Sansa grips tighter to Nell in answer, her shoulders steadying as she takes a breath and quiets her tears. Nell can do nothing but hold her, rock her as a babe, run her fingers through copper curls and stare silently at the autumn flowers glowing in soft sunlight.

“I tended you when Lady Olenna brought you back to our chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast,” whispers Sansa. “I fed you broth and dampened your brow – as you have done for me half a thousand times all the years you’ve soothed my every hurt and ache.” Her fingers tighten on Nell’s hand, smooth the pearl of her nails one by one. “Once or twice, you woke and blinked at me and you whispered ever only one thing… _Ned_.” Her voice is soft as the secrets she speaks. “I know you love my father, Nell – and I know he loves you, too.” Sansa looks up to Nell’s sob and runs her fingers over her handmaid’s tear-stained cheeks. “The way he looked night after night at dinner when you were abed… I have never seen a man move so broken. Now I have Willas, I understand every look and touch that passed between you both here and at home… and I do not hate you for it, Nellie.” She presses a kiss to Nell’s cheek. “I could _never_ hate you for it.”

“You should,” says Nell, her voice partway between whisper and whimper. “The gods know, I have hated myself every day for it.” She meets those eyes Tully blue and bright with tears and gives a broken smile. “You _should_ hate me, my heart… you should hate me fierce as I love you.” She bites her lip, feels it tremble between her teeth. “Hate me, Sansa Stark… for all, for _everything_.”

“For _what_?” asks Sansa, looking full at those blue-grey eyes churning wild as a storm-tossed sea. “For playing with me as a child, for singing me sweet songs when I could not sleep? For stitching my sleeves when I tore them, for picking silks and sharing every squeal of excitement with me when a lord asked me to dance or a knight deigned to look at me?” She frowns now, grips Nell by the shoulders. “For keeping me safe in this viper’s pit? For fending off men who would hurt me: silver-eyed fools and every ungallant knight who would’ve taken my honour and heart had my handmaid not been there to stop him with fire in her eyes and a dagger in her voice?” Her voice is stronger now and she smiles with tears running down the soft velvet of her cheeks. “How could I hate you, Nell? You have been my greatest and most constant friend for near all my life.” She embraces her fiercely. “I could never hate you, Nellie, _never_.”

They sway for a time together amongst the crooked roots of the heart tree, dappled in the sunlight slipping soft as secrets through bare branch and falling leaf. Pale and chill as the sun is, its rays fall gold and warm as they catch on autumn flowers trailing trunk and tumbledown wall: yellow and purple and white, they glow like licks of flame. Nell and Sansa sit and sob amongst their fire, warm as their glow, whilst leaf and wraith fall as dark shadows upon red-brown river-mud far away.

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By noonday, the wolf is tired and the man hungers to crumble in his stead. Ned’s face is set grim as it was when he strode from the Tower of the Hand just after dawn, but he feels the effort of keeping it so begin to take its ache. His head is a pulse of fire, the tight skin beneath his eyes screams for soft thumbs to smooth away its sting. He shakes such wants away, squares his shoulders and keeps his face unsmiling. _Easier to sit as a wolf when deliberating on death and disease_ , he thinks grimly. _Easier to sit as a wolf now than as a man_. Just as Ned can put aside his wolf-blood and move as man and Stark, he can call it back and hold it up as shield and ship to ride a sea of sickness and sorrow. He has need of that shield and ship this day more than ever.

The council chamber is a glow of warmth in a world of ice. Woodsmoke hangs heavy as worry in the air; flames roar in the darkwood hearth. Red and yellow, fireflame casts shadows to turn the ebony table to embers, flickers across the maps and half-written letters spread upon it. Mace Tyrell wears a cloth-of-gold robe as heavy as his frown; the thick golden rings on his fingers sparkle and flare as he jabs at the sheepskin map, blunt thumbs running the course of a river here, a road there. Paxter Redwyne crouches stoop-shouldered beside him, nodding gravely above his cobalt tunic, a frown on his face as Renly Baratheon shakes his head at something his liege lord is saying. The voice of Varys cuts through their bickering for a moment, soft and sweet as his robes of peach velvet; but Barristan Selmy cuts him to quiet with a blunt word as the flames turn his bone-white cuirass to crimson. Their voices rise all at once then, a storm of steel and sweetness vying for command of the room.

Ned watches patient as a wolf, his eyes circling the lords bright-faced and bickering as a pack of hens dressed in fine silks with gold at throat and ear and wrist. _Sickness and sorrow_ , he thinks. _What I’d give for a sea of silence in its stead_. He runs a hand over the black beard grown so wild on his cheeks, works his jaw and gives a sigh. Beside him, Robert does much the same, storm-blue eyes flickering as busily as flames in the hearth, following the flow of sound and storm as a shepherd watches his flock of sheep. _Am I wolf or man?_ Ned wonders it again as he watches with his king the lambs baying and making noise and butting heads with each other. _A wolf would work for silence with tooth and claw till the lambs ran meek and quiet to the hills_ …

“My lords,” comes a sharp voice from atop his pile of wine-dark cushions. “Peace for a moment - _peace_.” Tyrion Lannister slams down his silver-plated cup and watches with amusement as they all start and stammer. “You fuss and cuss like a pack of hens squabbling for seeds in the soil.” His voice lowers now that they are listening. “Last I learned, this flux tarried in Riverrun… yet you work yourselves into such a fever I wonder if it has already travelled from kingsroad to keep to council chamber.” He gives a wry smile. “Peace, please, my lords, and let us work a solution in place of squabbles.”

“Well said, Lord Tyrion,” says Robert, to a chorus of muttered agreement from the lords ranged around the ebony table. “Lord Mace, I believe you were in the midst of sharing some news before my sweet brother interrupted its telling.” Robert and Renly flash a glittering glance at each other. “Pray, continue.”

Mace Tyrell, puffed-up and prideful as he is, has the grace to nod his head and get on with the matter quietly. “News from Hayford not a day past,” he says, smoothing the scrap of paper in his fat fingers. “Scant information scribbled in haste.” His gold-brown eyes glow with relief. “My son Garlan makes his way back to the capital, half his men hale and hearty at his heels.” He glances at the king. “Of the Kingslayer, he writes nothing… but we will know soon enough what transpired along the River Road, my lords.”

“Good,” says Robert, running a thumb the course of road and river on the sheepskin map. “I trust ravens have been sent out from keep to kingdom telling of the River Road’s closure until this flux has passed?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” comes the sweet voice of Varys, leaning forward from his seat in the shadows. “Four ravens sent to each quartet of the kingdom.” He runs his gleaming eyes over a list he holds in his soft white hands. “Messages to each of the capital’s gates, too, turning away goods and men from the riverlands.” He bows his head at Mace Tyrell with a smile sweet as his voice. “All men… _excepting_ Garlan the Gallant, of course.” He glances back to the king. “The docks have been notified as well, and told to turn away any river-borne boats hailing from Riverrun itself.”

“Good,” says Robert, rolling up the sheepskin map. “My lords – ”

Ned looks up with the others as a sharp noise cuts them all to quiet. The brass-fitted doors to the council chamber bang open and slam shut again; stomp of boots and clatter of armour ring like bells toward the red-warm room. Ned watches with cool detachment as a pale-faced man-at-arms steps into the chamber and calls a name. _A sea of sickness and sorrow_ , thinks Ned. _It sweeps in now swift as a storm_ … He steels himself, hefts his shield of wolf-blood even as he feels its wildness slipping soft and slow from his veins. Ice takes its place, frost of fear till he is numb and grim as his unsmiling face. _Am I wolf or man?_ He hears his heartbeat thunder in his ears as a tall man in green-and-gold surcoat over silver armour ducks into the firelit chamber.

_Man_ , decides Ned as Garlan Tyrell meets grim grey eyes with sorrow wrought fresh and frantic in his gaze. _Now the wolf has slipped away and left me without its blood-shield_. Ned looks with dream-drunk eyes as the green-and-gold knight drops to a knee before him. _Sickness and sorrow_. Fear flickers in his heart now, fear wild and frantic as the wolf-blood fled from his veins. _What I’d give for a sea of silence in its stead_ …

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Sansa is smiling by the time they leave the godswood; Nell has never been so glad to see her so. They walk arm-in-arm, sharing soft chatter and chuckle on their way to high tea with Queen Margaery. It is bare past noonday, but there is a chill in the air that cuts to the bone as they cross beneath the shadows of the portcullis. Nell shivers despite her heavy layers of gown and cloak; Sansa’s hand trembles where it rests on her arm. Overhead, the sun slips behind a cloud as four ravens cut across its dying rays. _Black and white and grey_ , thinks Nell. The ravens are charcoal in a world of pearl, dipping beyond the banked clouds. _All the shades of truth_ …

“Dark wings, dark words,” says Sansa, sapphire eyes seeing the same as blue-grey stare. “I wonder what news they carry.” She grips Nell’s arm a little tighter as they press on across the outer yard toward the great hall. “I warn you well in advance, Nell, Margaery’s tastes are a little… _queer_ at present.” They share another soft chuckle. “The maester says it’s the babe and that we must share in the queen’s every whim and happiness. I do, truly… but supping on pickled peaches is a step too far, to be true.”

They are laughing still as they draw level with the council chamber sitting snug and smoky against the pale crimson curtain wall. Its brass-fitted doors are thrown open, a dozen men-at-arms milling thick as woodsmoke on the cobbles without. Sansa draws them to a stop with a squeeze on Nell’s sleeve. Her quick sapphire eyes take in the green-and-gold of the soldiers and widen as shouts ring out from amongst their ranks: roars and orders, the bellow of a stag, the howl of a wolf.

“Tyrell men,” says Sansa, clutching at Nell. “But what’s the noise?”

As if in answer, the tide of green-and-gold breaks rank and scatters like rose petals to the chill wind whipping up from the cobblestones. Nell sees Robert first: black-bearded, storm-eyed, shouting words that trail away with the wind. She sees Ned then, storming grim as winter from between the brass-fitted doors, his shoulders filling half the world, his eyes wolf-wild in the pearly noonday light. Robert makes to grab his shoulders and pull him back; Ned turns lithe as a wolf and pounces. They grapple like boys, like brothers, falling to their knees on the icy cobbles. Sansa gives a shriek as Tyrell men surge forward to defend the king, even as Robert curses them for fools and lands a punch for every strike Ned parries. Nell stands shocked-steady as Sansa for a moment, watching wolf and stag fight amongst a crop of roses. Then Robert glares up and shouts something. The wind tears at his words but his storm-blue eyes are fixed on Nell.

“Go to the queen, my heart,” says Nell, squeezing Sansa’s arm before she releases her and steps forward. “All will be well.” She doesn’t look back; she does not think she could bear the grief that turns those eyes Tully blue and bright with tears. “I am ironborn and iron-hard.” Her voice is a whisper. “Ironborn and iron-hard.”

They part before her like ship through sea. Robert heaves himself up, spits blood from his mouth and stares at her with a bruise darkening one storm-blue eye. Another shout that tears from his lips strong as the wind; the Tyrell men disperse silent as shadows. They all go after that, each lord and gawping servant, each gold-cloak dallying on the curtain wall, even the king fades away like a wraith. It is just she and he now. _Ned_. Her heart breaks with its beating, tears bloody against her ribs. _My Ned, bare and broken before me, my sweet Ned_ …

He is on his knees, blood running its salt down the line of his brow. Crimson and cold, it whispers into the black beard grown so wild on his cheeks. Wordlessly, he looks up at her with eyes the grim grey of winter storm. He reaches for her, his fingers clawing the cold air desperately. She steps before him where he kneels upon the icy cobblestones; he buries his face in her belly and crushes his arms around her hips. Her fingers slip into his dark hair, smooth it against the nape of his neck as she rocks him like a babe. He does not cry, but he shakes. She lifts his face from her belly and tips it back to make him look at her. He stares into her eyes, numb as his knees against the ice of the cobbles, his fingers clutching frantically at her hips.

“Ironborn and iron-hard,” whispers Nell, holding his great face in her little hands. “I’ll keep us _all_ above the water, my love.” He crumbles against her then, burying his face back into her warmth, his arms crushing the life from her as she stares down at him with eyes full of tears. “I promise, Ned Stark… I promise.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Black and white and grey_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 43: Eddard XI.  
> 2\. A wolf sleeps sound even as the song rages on: secrets, sickness, and sorrow… yet one now sleeps sound forever.


	20. Ash and Ache

When Nell first came to Winterfell, Catelyn Stark took her to one side and told her of the children she would mind, the manners she would keep, the lord she would listen to. Near ten years past, her lady had a face unlined, voice soft as velvet, hair red and rich as fire; but her eyes were Tully blue and bright as ice to fall upon the black-haired boy her lord husband brought home from the war. Catelyn Stark never spoke his name to Nell even as Jon Snow stood like a black sheep amongst her children red of hair and blue of eye; she took Nell by the wrist and led her away with nary a word. _Family, duty, honour, those were her words hoisted proud as a flag within her heart_ , thinks Nell. _Yet she added hate to fly amongst them, true enough_ … She could be cruel and cold and cutting, Lady Catelyn; but she could be warm and good and true, too. Nell will remember that part of her this morrow, and try to forget the other – even for just a moment.

Beside her, Arya finds her hand beneath the folds of cloak: grey-and-white in a world of firelit frost. Rain fell heavy from ivory clouds yester-eve; rivers of it have frozen overnight, limned yellow and pink and orange by the soft sun rising over the eastern hills. They make a solitary procession, the wolf-pup and the handmaid, until Nell hums a little beneath her breath and grips tight to Arya’s warm little hand. Soon enough, she joins in with her handmaid’s soft-sung lullaby; it rises sweet to join with the blackbird singing on its ledge half a castle away. _A sea of sorrow_. Nell looks down at Arya’s sleek dark head and feels the ache of love pull heavy in her heart. _We will make it sweet again, little one, I promise_ … At the sound of footsteps behind them, they pause a moment.

“Wait,” calls a soft voice, breath ragged from running. “I’ll come with you… to the river, I’ll come with you.”

Nell holds out her other hand as fingers ice-cold as the morning weave with hers; Sansa leans her head against Nell’s shoulder with a sweet little smile. They walk in silence save for the soft-sung lullaby stirring the icy air around them, their steps cutting a path through the frost that shines the cobblestones half a hundred shades of fireflame. Hand-in-hand, they walk: the wolf-pup, the handmaid, and the winter rose, all wrapped in heavy cloaks of grey-and-white standing stark as shadows in a world of firelit frost. The blackbird’s song seems to follow them as they slip through the sunken gardens and pass beneath a postern gate giving access to cut-out steps leading down to the river below. Gingerly, the girls follow Nell as she picks a careful path down the stone stair made slippery as river-pebbles by the frost.

“We made a crown for you, Sansa,” says Arya when they are halfway down. “Nellie thought you’d come with us… so we made you a crown, too.”

“A crown?” asks Sansa.

“Wildflowers,” answers Nell, soft as her steps. “Arya thought to set some flowers onto the river for your lady mother.” She swallows the tears that threaten to thicken her throat. “We wove three crowns: one for each to set upon the water.”

In truth, Arya wove them herself before the dawn, picking petals and stems up from the godswood, plaiting them and presenting them, beautiful and bright with frost, to Nell when she slipped into her chamber and asked if they could go to the river this morrow. As if she can see such thoughts, Arya shoots Nell a quick glance; Nell gives a soft smile. _Wild and wilful she may be_ , thinks Nell. _But she cannot for one moment abide being thought of as weak_. She’d said as much when she laid the three crowns of wildflowers on Nell’s bed; Nell was _not_ to tell _anyone_ it was Arya who made them, that was far too _girly_ , and she was _not_ a normal girl – she was a water dancer. The tears threaten to storm her throat again as Arya gives her a conspiratorial nod. _A sea of sorrow_ … Nell runs her thumbs over each of their hands, gripped tightly in her own. _We will make it sweet again, my girls, I promise_ …

Shadows of sunlight and frost-glitter turn the Blackwater a sweep of ebony in a world of white. It cuts quiet as its murmur, a thread of black speckled white by the tiny boats that bob its distant currents. Here, on the little ledge beneath the stone-cut steps winding from the crimson postern gate, it laps at the dark soil soft as lullabies falling from the lips of the three that stand and gaze across it. Nell closes her eyes a moment, listens to the whisper of water on soil and thinks of her lady in her deathbed. _Did she call for Ned?_ She wonders it still, even as she knows the answer here amongst the scent of salt curling thick as smoke off the Blackwater. _No_ , she decides firmly, feeling its truth pull at the ache in her heart. _She called for home in husband’s stead, and now the three-forked river welcomes her back to live forever amongst its watery arms and constant heart_.

She opens her eyes to watch Arya bend down at the river’s edge. Three crowns of wildflowers drift out, beautiful and bright with frost against the ebony ribbon of riverwater cutting up a world of white. Nell stands with Arya beneath one arm and Sansa the other, holding them to her as they watch the garlands ebb and twist and bob as boats to the current. Yellow and purple and white: ironweed, clover, and rock roses turning the black river bright with soft petals glowing like licks of flame in the sunlight. _Flowers of autumn_ , thinks Nell as a tear turns to a drop of ice on her cheek. _Set free as petals to the wind_ … They stand and watch for half the morning, bleeding warmth together in a world of firelit frost.

“I can hear it, Nellie,” whispers Arya.

“Hear what, sweet one?” asks Nell.

“Mother’s song… I can _hear_ it.”

The tear melts on Nell’s cheek then, but she shakes it free and holds the girls closer; they lean their heads against her and stare with soft smiles at the flowers dappling the riverwater in drifts of yellow and purple and white. They all hear it then: the blackbird’s song, sweet and sorrowful, weaving over the whisper of the Blackwater Rush.

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Ravens rise with the sun, bringing news as dark as their beating wings, news of disease and death already spoken by Garlan Tyrell yester-eve on his knees in the council chamber. The letters are short and sharp, sealed with the red-and-blue wax of House Tully. Scarce a day after the first ravens flew with news come two weeks late, a dozen Tyrell men-at-arms perished in Riverrun’s courtyard. Above, in its firelit rooms overlooking the three-forked river, two more soon succumbed to sickness: Lord Hoster Tully, and his daughter Catelyn. Ned smooths the thick paper in his hands. _Two full weeks_ , he thinks. _My lady wife has lain dead two full weeks_. Such thoughts are as foreign to him as the southern hills bone-white beneath frost more suited to the north. _Two full weeks, shouldn’t I have felt it? Shouldn’t I have known?_ He stares hard at the ivory cityscape, his eyes brooding on its turrets and towers limned pearl by weak sunlight, and wonders at the empty feeling churning at his belly, the fire pulling at his throat.

A strong hand on his arm tears him from his silent brooding. Ned turns from the leaded glass and looks down at the fingers gripping his sleeve. The sunlight catches on the thick thumb ring of gold-and-jet, sparkles on the storm-blue eyes narrowed above the great black beard as Ned lifts his gaze. Robert watches him warily as a steer before a wolf, but there is worry in those storm-blue eyes, too. He releases Ned’s arm, pushes a horn of ale toward him, and lifts his own cup. They stare at each other a moment, taking in the marks each has left on the other’s skin: the bruise dark as night across one storm-blue eye, the cut breaking open again on a northman’s brow as he frowns. _Blood and bruise_ , thinks Ned. _Brothers_. He gives a smile at last; bone-cups clank softly together.

“I love you, Ned, and I _know_ you,” says Robert gruffly, a white smile behind his black beard. “Closer than brothers, isn’t that the truth of it?” His voice is brisk and bright. “For that love and knowledge of you, I’ll say this only once – else you give me another black eye.” He grips Ned’s arm again, storm-blue eyes bright as his voice. “It was not your fault, Ned Stark, and you couldn’t have known.” He presses tighter: iron against velvet. “She would have returned to Riverrun with or without your blessing… and you were not to know some bloody flux would fly up the Tumblestone and take root in keep and castle.” He gives a smaller smile. “Hear me this once, Ned, such tragedy is _not_ at your door.”

“Whose door, then?” asks Ned, voice as heavy as his frown.

“The Kingslayer,” rejoins Robert at once. “The Mountain, the ragged score of pillagers they led to turn the riverlands a tide of smoke and slaughter.” His face is grim. “You know the way of war, Ned. Bodies flushed down streams, blood and guts and bone spilt and carried half a kingdom away from the banks they were scattered upon… it does not make for clean wells and rivers of crystal.” He shakes his head. “It is not at your door, Ned – it’s at the door of the men who burned a path for flux to spread.” He lets go of Ned’s arm, giving a firm nod. “ _That_ is my decree – as king and brother both.”

“A raven came after dawn,” says Ned, feeling a soft swell of gladness in his heart. “Rickon returns safely home to Winterfell – hale and hearty as when he left.” He looks down at the black ale thick in the bone-cup. “Soon to have the heart knocked out of him when I send word of his lady mother’s passing.” He takes a swallow, but tastes only ash and ache. “At least he has his brothers with him… and thank the gods that the girls have Nell.” He worries his lip with his teeth, his voice a whisper. “Thank the gods.”

“She’s a good woman,” says Robert softly. “She’ll see you right… _all_ of you.”

Ned sits a while once the king has gone. Slowly, the sun crests the sky, spilling rays as bright as the frost without; they catch the leaded glass of the solar windows, blinding Ned from his silent brooding of tower and turret. He runs a hand over weary eyes and blinks out over the cobblestones below, the gold-cloaks that walk the curtain wall, the boys sparring in the bailey, the echo of life as normal. Somewhere, a blackbird is singing: sweet and sorrowful, weaving with the pale sunlight whispering across a world of firelit frost. _Sweet_ , thinks Ned. _Sweet as ship of iron upon a sea of sickness and sorrow_ … He gets up from the high-backed chair, drinks the last of the ale from the bone-cup. He tastes it this time, sweet and thick as the blackbird’s song.

The Tower of the Hand is a web of silence and shadows, guttered torches and thick rushes to muffle the tread of feet upon the flagstones. He hears no humming or lullabies this morrow; the doors to Arya and Nell’s chambers are left open, showing the empty beds and cold fires within. His wolf-pup was stormy-eyed as he when Ned sat on her bed yester-eve and told her softly of her mother. He kissed her brow and rocked her when she climbed wordlessly into his lap, the set of her frown and angry tearless sighs reminding him so much of Lyanna that his frozen heart almost melted to flood as a sea of sorrow and drown them both. He must have gripped her a little too tightly at that; she patted his back and then asked him to fetch Nell. _A lullaby, please_ , she asked it so prettily and smiled as Nell sang her to sleep with silver words of ship and sea and starlit skies. Ned hums its tune beneath his breath now as he dips beneath the half-empty canopy of the godswood.

Catelyn never held the old gods above her own seven-sided star, so Ned does not come to pray for her easy passing or give thanks to the heart tree for her life. He lit a candle before the Mother’s altar in the castle sept once he’d got up off his knees from the cobblestones, murmured one of the prayers he remembered from his time at the Eyrie, stepped around Septa Mordane knelt white-knuckled in prayer. No, he does not come to the godswood to pray, he comes for what he always seeks amongst the quiet of the leaves: peace. With the hard comfort of the oak tree at his back, he finds a measure of it, his grey eyes following the russet-green leaves drifting as wraiths to the dark frost of the soil. He thinks on it then, a marriage of fifteen years with a shadow of two between lord and lady: Brandon Stark and Jon Snow.

_Brother and black-haired boy, two hills a wolf could not bridge, two rivers a trout could not swim between_ …

Fifteen years, and secrets swarmed thick as that two-fold shadow between them. _Family, duty, honour… they were not enough for her to see a black-haired boy with anything but hatred turning Tully eyes blue as ice_. Ned grits his teeth, leans back against the heart tree. _Fifteen years… they were not enough for me to forget she was always meant to be my brother’s bride_. Yet for all the cold words and hot looks, fifteen years did not pass bereft of joy and laughter; their children were the sunlight between the shadows – and still are. Ned thinks of them as he sits amongst the drifting russet-green leaves of the godswood: Robb showing Bran how to notch an arrow, Rickon scampering wild as his wolf, Sansa in her green-and-gold brocade floating pretty as spring around the Red Keep, Arya falling to sleep with a smile soft as the lullaby that soothed her. _Fifteen years, five children… **they** are enough for me to thank you forever, my lady_.

He leans a hand to the forest floor, making to get up and find his girls, peace in his heart and a smile grim as winter storm on his face. Amongst the russet-green leaves and drifts of wildflowers, his fingers brush something smooth and hard. Frowning, he draws the bluestone vial up from amongst the roots of the heart tree, turns it this way and that, watching as the sunlight catches the threads of glitter speckling its pale body. _Once for hate, once for fear, once for duty_ … He runs his thumb over its uncorked top, catches scent of the drop of tansy tea left dangling on its edge. _Once for love_ … He stares at it a moment, this sunlit bit of bluestone that holds such power: power of shadows, power of secrets spilled soft as wormwood petals in a moonlit grove, power of seed and storm, power of promises… He rolls it in his palm, then puts it in his pocket.

“Once for love,” he whispers, glancing skyward, grey eyes running their promise over the realm of gods that looks down at this shadowy world of men. “Never again.”

ლ

Septa Mordane returns in time for dinner, stoop-shouldered from her days spent at the feet of the Mother, frost-fingered from hours clasped in solemn prayer. But the ice of her eyes thaws a little when Sansa touches her arm to turn her to a conversation with Jeyne Poole; the three of them soon make chatter and chuckle, bear it soft as song up amongst the high rafters of the small hall. Arya sits with Jory and a handful of his men: Harwin, Alyn, Fat Tom and the rest. They ruffle her hair and let her throw a dagger or two at a mark on the rough-hewn wall, clapping her aim and laughing at her scowl when she misses. Only shadows sit the lord’s chair; dusky light plays across the empty silver-plated cup before it. Nell catches a glance thrown to her by Sansa and tries a reassuring smile.

The first course is borne away by soft-stepped servants, a warming winter stew laid out in its place. Rafters ring with the clack of spoons on bowls, the dull tear of black bread halved and handed out, the idle chatter loosed to lift heavy hearts. Nell looks from her trencher to the empty lord’s chair at the head of the trestle table. Shadows chase across the carved arms, fill the silver-plated cup in place of wine. Nell lifts her own wine-cup to her lips, takes a swallow; it tastes of worry, ash and ache.

“Go to him,” comes a soft voice at her ear.

Nell turns to find Sansa sat close beside her on the ashwood bench, her sapphire eyes soft as her voice. She lays a hand on Nell’s and grips lightly. They look at each other a moment as the chatter and clanking of supper fills the air thick as the dusky pink light pouring in through the high windows. Sansa’s hair is red and rich as fire; it glows crimson in the flare of dying sunlight. Nell runs her thumb over the girl’s cheekbone, tweaks her chin; they smile at each other.

“As we need you, so does he,” says Sansa, tightening her grip on Nell’s fingers, her eyes Tully blue and bright as the flames of her hair. “Go to him.”

Nell could weep at the smile lifting the soft velvet of that beloved cheek, but she does not. She leans forward instead, presses a kiss to Sansa’s brow and takes her leave of the small hall. A guard in grey-and-white throws open the brass-fitted doors; she nods her thanks and steps through. Icy air kisses at her cheeks like a lover, and she breathes it in, feels it surge almost warm amongst her ribs. _Sweet_ , she thinks. _Sweet as a blackbird’s song_. The blackbird is nested away for the night; Nell steals his tune. She hums it to herself as she crosses the middle bailey and slips as a shadow the serpentine steps.

Her cheeks are winter-bright by the time she mounts the stair up onto the curtain wall and pauses to catch her breath. The light is fast fading as the sun sinks below hills pink as they were this morrow; already a handful of stars flicker like flame overhead. Everything is soft shades of pink and orange and yellow, turning the world firelit frost, every tower and turret and rooftop glittering winter-bright as Nell’s cheeks. _Sweet_. She gazes at it: this crimson keep and sprawling city that has somehow become her home. _Sweet, despite its scent of salt and smoke_.

She can hear the murmur of the Blackwater beyond the battlements; she follows its song around a curve in the curtain wall, and there she finds him gazing out over the river like a warrior, his shoulders square and taking up half the sky, his head straight, his heavy cloak drifting as autumn flowers in the wind. _Ned_. She watches him a moment and feels her heart surge and swell. _My sweet Ned_ …

“By rights, I should send her bones back to Winterfell,” murmurs Ned as she steps up beside him, his voice low as the river’s rush.

“She would not have wanted that, my lord,” says Nell, fixing her eyes on the same distant point as Ned. “She would have wanted to be given back to the river, like every Tully before her.” She feels that truth strong in her heart as her love for him. “Red-brown river mud, lush green fields, the pathways of the three-forked Trident… that is what she was, Ned.” She smiles at the Blackwater. “She _was_ Riverrun – and she should rest there.”

Ned turns from the river, his grey eyes soft as summer storm. Nell holds her hand out; he takes it and pulls her into the shelter of his arms. She rubs her cheek against the fur-trim of his cloak, shivers to feel his fingers running through the black silk of her hair. They stand silently for a moment, a flare of warmth in a world of ice, before they turn to stare out over the wide ebony sweep of the Blackwater. Nell thinks of three crowns woven by a wolf-pup: yellow and purple and white on a swell of black. _Flowers of autumn drifting sweet across a sea of sorrow_... She smiles to herself at that.

“Will she go back to Brandon, do you think?” asks Ned as they stare at the darkening sky setting heavy over the Blackwater. “Will she go back to the brother I stole her from?”

“She’ll go where all rivers go, my love,” whispers Nell, turning her face from his chest and gazing up at him. “Back to the sea.” Her fingers trail feather-light over his cheek. “Who is to say whether Brandon Stark will meet her there?”

Ned turns them from the river now, pulls her flush against him with hard hands on her waist. He drinks deep her eyes as he rests his forehead to her own. He kisses each of her winter-bright cheeks, his fingers smoothing the black silk of her hair down her back. She gazes at him as he gazes at her: soft and sweet as a blackbird’s song.

“It was all meant for Brandon,” murmurs Ned, twisting his brow against hers. “Catelyn, Winterfell, the North, _everything_ … but not _you_ , Nell Northwood.” His kiss lands feather-light as her grip on his face; it is the sweetest thing she has ever tasted. He draws back and smiles at her; they are a flare of warmth in a world of firelit frost, the river a whisper, their kiss a song. “You were only ever meant for _me_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _It was all meant for Brandon_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 6: Catelyn II.  
> 2\. A quiet goodbye to a rose of the river... and a chance for sweetness to silence sorrow’s song once again. 🌹


	21. Broken Harp

Ebony wings against a white sky, the ravens dip and twist past banked clouds, curling at each other’s flight paths as if they are boys at play. _Black and white and grey_ , thinks Nell as she watches them. _All the shades of truth_. They turn aft sharply, shimmering night-dark against the silver coin of the sun half-risen over the ivory hills to the east. One gives a rough caw that echoes knife-sharp in the icy air; both sweep into the rookery shrouded in morning mist. Nell keeps her eyes on the turret long after the ravens have disappeared; she shivers beneath her layers of wool and velvet and heavy linen. Of late, the days have come colder, the nights longer. Robb writes his lord father of snows fallen across the northern reaches, game trails growing thinner, more folk shifting to the winter town beyond the grey stone walls of Winterfell. _Summer lasted ten years, autumn set heavy in a moment, and now winter is coming_ … Nell turns from the redstone rookery.

Around her, the Red Keep is waking: a half-frozen red snake nestling for warmth amongst the ice-capped hills. A flood of maids and men move through its galleys and walkways and halls, brandishing torches, relighting fires, setting braziers to leap with life after a night of glowing down to embers. Nell drifts amongst the swell of servants, blue-grey eyes taking in pale faces and hunched shoulders. By look of their chattering teeth and blue fingers, more than half of them have never moved in a world so cold. _Winter strides mean and hungry as the hour of the wolf_. She blinks as Olenna Tyrell’s words circle as smoke before her eyes. _The wolf, for true… **and** the ward at his side_. She frowns such words away, runs her fingers along the icy flowerheads still peeking over waist-height walls. Petals dip and twist beneath her touch, falling fast as ravens through a white sky; but still their scent lingers. _Sweet and sharp_. Nell wonders it as she walks, plucked rock rose a feather of frost in her palm. _Sweet and sharp all at once_ …

True, life is that. It moves as the ravens moved this morrow: dip and twist, ofttimes playful, other times knife-sharp as the echoes of a rough caw in icy air. Sickness is gone, sorrow, too; sweetness clouds day thick as honey, lingers at the edges of the night. Sansa sits with the queen, velvet-cheeked, all soft smiles to watch Margaery grow greater with child, her belly bursting against her pretty gowns of green-and-gold brocade. Arya skips around keep and castle like a roe deer, besting her dance-master more often than not, bringing to dinner a dozen new scratches on her cheeks, dirty-handed, tangled hair, purple shins – but grinning wild as a wolf-pup. Septa Mordane tuts and scolds of an evening, yet even she has softened some: she greets Nell with a _smile_ most times they sit to break their fast in the small hall. The rushes are gone from the flagstones, torches relit, thick shrouds pulled down from the tall windows; the Tower of the Hand _breathes_ again, rings sweet with sounds of life as normal: laughter, tall tales, clanking cups, whispered words late into the night…

Nell frowns, her fingers closing swiftly on the rock rose in her palm. Frost-edged and fragile, it crumbles in an instant. She opens her fingers, watches as half-torn petals fall soft as ash to the pale crimson stone underfoot, drifting up their scent as smoke. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. True, she is that. Ofttimes playful, other times knife-sharp as the echoes of a rough caw in icy air. She keeps her promise to her girls: life is made sweet for them, an endless tide of honey and cinnamon and cherries after the sea of sickness and sorrow they have sailed of late. She works noon and night to keep it so: picking winter gowns for Sansa and supping with the queen, telling Arya stories of faeries and piskies and sea monsters in the deep, singing them both soft lullabies when they call on her dawn and dusk to smooth away the sting of grief.

“Up and down, down and up,” Olenna Tyrell said not a sennight past when Nell rushed from her bedchamber to Maegor’s Holdfast to quiet Sansa’s sobs. “How tired that pretty little head must be, Nell Northwood.”

True, her head is that. Nell moves in a fog most days, sleep-heavy eyes and stinging steps, her smile tasting of ash and ache as she makes chatter and chuckle with Sansa and the queen’s roses, her songs burning her throat hot as tears that she will never let fall. _But I keep my promise_ , she tells herself stubbornly, fingers hawks’ claws on the frozen balustrade of the walkway. _Life is made sweet again for those girls, never mind for me_. Somehow, she has made a loop of the cloistered pathways already and finds herself in a stone alcove looking out over the Blackwater Rush.

A sweep of ebony in a world of white, the river murmurs and whistles; white-cut by boats bobbing its currents, its scent of smoke and salt hangs heavy in the icy air whispering over it. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. Near three months have passed since Nell wandered to the river’s edge and watched three crowns of wildflowers drift out from shore: yellow and purple and white on a sea of black. Near three months she has flitted like a ghost between keep and castle, her soft words and gentle hands a balm to girlish grief that rips up the quiet of sleep. Near three months she has scarce slept herself, but she has dreamed. _Tully eyes blue and bright as ice, a king’s kind curse, a handmaid’s prayer before the heart tree_ … True, she has dreamed; the shadows that chase beneath her eyes are silent proof of a guilt that fires her belly and burns her heart. She stares at the river.

Ned has tried to soothe the silent guilt he sees in her eyes, tried to kiss away the curse she will never speak of. But he _knows_ , she can tell. How could he not? He knows her better than all, better than any, better than himself. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. True, that is how she is with him. Ofttimes she reaches for him in the night, only to snatch back her hands when eyes of ice trip from dream to day and glare at her sharp as the echoes of a rough caw in icy air. The confusion that rents his eyes dark as smoke when he sees her grasp and grapple sheets in place of his fingers breaks her heart. Most times now she waits till he is soft in sleep and then she leaves his chambers on silent feet, threading the stone stair to sit and watch the dawn come in, or dashing frost-edged cobblestones to Maegor’s Holdfast if a gold-sealed summons calls her to sing and soothe a winter rose. _Up and down, down and up_ … Nell wraps her arms around herself and gazes bleakly at the river. _How tired that pretty little head must be_ …

Nell closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of smoke and salt curling up off the river, remembers that same tang flowering her skin when Ned held her in his arms and looked out over the dusky Blackwater. _It was all meant for Brandon_ … His words whisper at her ears like lover’s kisses, leaving prickles that rise and shiver with the icy breeze blowing up off the river. _But not you, Nell Northwood – you were only ever meant for **me**_. They tumbled from battlement to bed that evenfall; he left her body a blush of kisses and soft words murmured against her skin long into the night. Words that ran away from his tongue like errant sheep from a shepherd: words of her father and her life before Pyke, her old name, her _rightful_ place –

“Enough,” she told him clearly, but still he whispered, bleeding words with the kisses he left blazing ice and fire on her skin. “ _Enough_ , Ned Stark.” Luck to her that he was more wolf than man that night; he growled and bit, but said no more, turned her onto her back and left an ache between her legs that lingered well beyond the next day. “Enough…”

Nell blinks open her eyes, breathes in a gasp that shreds her lungs with frost, fills her belly with air so cold it burns like fire. _Sweet and sharp all at once_. True, his words were that – and they still sting knife-sharp near three months from their telling. _Tully eyes blue and bright as ice, a king’s kind curse, a handmaid’s prayer before the heart tree, a wolf’s whisperings of ward to wife_ … Her dreams are thick and black as the river she stands now staring at: wisps of wraith and shadow, moonlit secrets and ice-edged promises. She sets her face, the shadows aching beneath her eyes, her full lips dry in the icy air as she worries one between her teeth and bites down on thoughts of guilt and curse and worthiness. _Life is made sweet again for my girls, never mind for me_ … A raven’s cry shrieks from the rookery: a rough caw that echoes knife-sharp in the icy air.

ლ

Ned sits his solar half the day, watching absently as the sun glitters bright as a silver coin in the cloud-banked sky. He has been here since break of dawn, sunk into his high-backed chair, shifting through scattered papers and half-written letters spread thick as northern snows across the old oak desk. He glances back at the silver sun, thinking of a silk-spun gown the same smoky shade, the wave of dragonglass that crowned it, the blue-grey eyes bright as the sea above it all. A pang in his heart, a fire in his belly, an ache in his loins… Ned frowns at his own hunger, runs a hand over weary eyes, gives a silent plea for soft thumbs to smooth away the sting of their ache. _Two months_ , he thinks glumly. _Two months she’s been as a shadow from my heart, slipping away in the night, leaving me to wake cold as the fire burnt low in the hearth_ …

He looks down at the letter half-read in his rough hands, glances at the neat print of script in its curling corner. _Near three months_ , he corrects himself. _So long from my bed that she is in all my dreams_. Dreams of soft kisses and softer words, promises spoken in the shadow of a heart tree, hair as dragonglass, eyes starlit sea drinking his, sweet dreams, for true – but dreams all the same. Most days, it is the soft voice of Vayon Poole that wakes him from slumber, not soothing thumbs treading the tight skin beneath his eyes. Ofttimes, it is duty that greets him in place of dancing ebony curls and a kiss sweet as honey. He sets the letter down and sighs. _My fault_ , he knows it true as the pang in his heart. He spoke of things he shouldn’t have that evenfall they went from smelling the salt curling off the Blackwater to tasting its tang on each other’s skin. _Her life before Pyke, her lord father, her old name, her rightful place_ … He grimaces to remember the words falling soft as his kisses on her skin – and the bite of her voice as she cut him to quiet with a look fiery as her warmth around his cock. _Fool_ , he tells himself even as the memory of her heat and hands makes him stir in his high-backed chair. _More wolf than man that evenfall – with the wits of one in heat_ …

Ned busies himself with a grain report sent through with Robb’s last letter from Winterfell’s rookery. It is painstakingly compiled, neatly written, square columns, swirled titles; Ned does not think for a second it was his eldest son that sat and counted stems and stalks and barrels and wrote of them so beautifully. _Bran, my broken, brilliant boy_. He feels a swell of warmth override the ice of memory and dread of dreams. Sure enough, he finds a scribbled note overside the letter and gives a reluctant crack of laughter. Bran and Rickon send three kisses: one for each of the girls in the Hand’s household. Laughter fades to sweet relief; Ned bites his lip with gladness to think his sons find some small measure of joy amongst the sea of sickness and sorrow they have had to sail alongside their sisters.

“Is that from Robb?” comes a soft voice at the doorway. “He wrote to me, as well. Wished me hale and hearty – Willas, too.”

Sansa drifts in pretty as spring, her cheeks rosy from the wintry air without, her hair red and rich as fire piled daintily atop her head and held up with emerald-headed pins. She wears thick velvet in the green-and-gold of House Tyrell, a dozen golden roses worked into the square neckline; a larger rose pins the folds of her emerald cloak. She is a woman grown suddenly, but her eyes are the same brilliant blue as they have always been, and her smile is just as sweet.

“Aye,” says Ned, meeting her smile as she sits amongst the wine-dark cushions of the window seat. “Robb seeks praise for the inventory of Winterfell’s stores he sends.” His smile broadens. “I’ll give such praise, for true… to Bran.”

Sansa laughs. “Bran always did have a gift for numbers,” she says. “And Robb a gift for claiming credit.” Her eyes are bright as sapphires in the silver sunlight. “I remember when Rickon got hold of Nell’s harp at a feast-day years ago. She was heartbroken but tried hard not to show it, even as it laid all mangled in her lap.” She looks out through the leaded glass. “Nell went to bed, left the broken harp in her seat. Jon picked it up soon after, spent half the night untangling it, smoothing its splinters, restringing it.” A little smile lifts her lips. “Next day, Nell found the harp where she had left it in her seat in the great hall… but it wasn’t broken anymore. It was beautiful as it ever was, and still is.” She glances at her father. “Robb kissed her cheek and said she was more than welcome whilst Jon sat angry as a wolf in the shadows.”

They laugh together at that. “Robb is like your uncle Benjen in gift of charm,” says Ned conspiratorially, his brow raised. He waits a moment as their laughter dies and then looks to his daughter with a half-smile. “I’ve never heard you tell a tale of Jon Snow before, sweet one.” He tilts his head. “It… it lifts my heart to hear you speak of your brother so.”

“I was cruel to him when we were children,” murmurs Sansa, smoothing at her soft-spun skirts. “Ignored him, shunned him from our games, bare acknowledged him when he tried to share some story or jest with me.” She nibbles her lip. “I followed my lady mother in that… but I know now that she was wrong to treat him so.” Those sapphire eyes lift from her lap. “Where she showed malice to Jon, Nell always showed kindness. I didn’t understand it half a lifetime ago… but I understand it now well enough, and that is how I strive to be.” She smiles. “Kind to any – be they king or queen, lord or lady, bastard or high-born.” She takes a breath. “It is for her that I come to you this noonday.”

“For Nell?” asks Ned carefully.

“Yes,” says Sansa, shifting amongst the wine-dark cushions as the silver sunlight turns her eyes to glitter. “I worry for Nell, Father.” A quirk shows in her brow as she speaks. “She has spent near all her life worrying after me or Arya or one of the boys, chasing after us in the yard, mending our sleeves when we’d ripped them bloody, dealing out justice when we were screaming blue murder at one another… singing us all to sleep when dreams played thick as grief in our hearts.” She glances from Ned to the glimmering windowpane and back again. “It is time enough that _we_ worry for _her_ , Father.”

“Nell would not like to think of you worrying for her, Sansa,” says Ned evenly, leaning back in his chair, grey eyes seeking those of his daughter. “The gods know, all she wants is for you girls to be hale and hearty – and happy.”

“And she makes us so, for true,” murmurs Sansa, her voice soft as the smile that lifts her lips. “Just as she makes _you_ happy, Father.”

Ned feels his heart still and start and flutter amongst the crooks of his ribs. There is a seriousness behind the soft smile and sapphire eyes: a steeliness, a certainty, a challenge for him to dare deny its truth. He swallows thickly, runs a hand over the wild black beard, his grey eyes showing silver in the sunlight.

“Sansa…” he begins, but his voice dies in his throat at the fire in her eyes.

“I know,” she says softly. “I _know_ , Father.” She rises from her crook of cushions and floats toward the old oak desk. “There is no good to be got from you denying it.” She sinks into the chair drawn opposite him, her skirts spilling like rich green vines to the flagstones underfoot. “I told Nell true when I found out: I wanted very much to hate her. I wanted to be churlish and cutting and hold honour higher than the heart… but I could not find it in myself to hate her, Father – just as I cannot find it in myself to hate you, or you both _together_.” She gives a little nod, smooths her emerald cloak. “I love my lady mother and think of her often when I look out over the river… but that sea of sickness and sorrow sailed with the wildflowers I set to drift out upon it.” She takes a breath and smiles. “All I want now for Nell is what she promised me: sweetness, sunlight – a life without shame and shadow.” She looks over her shoulder. “It is what _we_ want: me and Arya both.”

“Arya?” begins Ned, half-lifting himself from his chair in shock as a wolf-pup bounds into the solar, tangled and torn-up by bruises hard-won from her morning spent sparring with Syrio Forel. She has a graze on her brow, a purple splotch on her chin – and a grin wolf-wild on her cheeks. “Who gave you that black eye?”

Arya rubs the vivid bruise darkening her left eye and shrugs. “A stable boy,” she says indifferently. “I was telling Gend– a _friend_ about how my father is to marry my handmaid and this stable boy killed himself laughing and said that would never happen.” She frowns over her grin. “So I hit him – _twice_ , after he swung back.” She shrugs again. “Nellie makes you happy, she makes us _all_ happy… what does it matter if she was a handmaid before or not?” She rolls her grey eyes skyward. “Men are so _stupid_.”

“Girls,” says Ned, as evenly as his heightened breath allows. “Whatever you are planning, it must stop.” He looks back and forth between them and curses their sly smiles silver-bright as the sunlight. “What _are_ you planning?”

“Sweetness,” says Sansa with a smile like honey. “Sunlight.” She laughs with Arya at the suspicion on their father’s face. “A life without shame and shadow for our most beloved little handmaid.”

ლ

Shadows fall thick as fireflame in the small hall, chasing shapes across bare stone walls, twisting dark threads amongst the trestle tables of ash, turning wine black as night in silver-plated cups. Nell lifts her own wine-cup to her lips, feels the shadow of summerwine slip down her throat easily as the shapes flickering across the walls and tabletops. She watches them bob and twist as boats to a current, watches as they flare and flounder in the wind blowing up from the brass-fitted doors thrown open sudden as a storm. She sets down her wine-cup and glances down the long ashwood table, narrowing her blue-grey eyes to see Ned stride in with half a hundred others. There comes a shout from amongst the milling ranks pouring as woodsmoke through the doors: a stag’s bellow that echoes knife-sharp in the firelit air.

Before Nell can make sense of what is happening, Sansa skips forward to carry out the king’s command. She whisks Nell from the bench, her velvet cheeks lifted high in a pearly smile, and leads her to the ebony stool at the head of the ashwood table. Nell looks down to find her harp pressed upon her lap and a stag’s bellow ringing like music in her ears as he commands her play – _play_. Her fingers flutter across the silver-stringed harp, a sweet tune lilts and lifts to tarry amongst the high rafters of the small hall and soon shadows have turned to sunlight: silken skirts spinning in dance, lords laughing, ladies leaping, dripping candlewax, murmured chatter, raucous shouts, boisterous chuckling, fireflame, summerwine, woodsmoke, _life_ … Nell watches it all with dream-drunk amazement and a flicker of joy fast flaring to flame in her heart. _Near three months_ , she thinks with wonder. _Dare I let sweetness flood where sorrow just stood?_ Her dreams threaten the small ember glowing in her belly; she shuts her eyes and sings to burn them away, soft words of sea and ship and silver light falling from her lips, tarrying with the woodsmoke to chase the shadows from the bare stone walls.

Later, Sansa takes the harp from Nell’s lap and pulls her up by the hand, setting her to spin amongst the swirl of silk and steps and soft smiles and sweet giggles throwing shadows to dance with the fireflame across the flagstones. Merry music of pipe and cittern replaces the harp’s sweet sorrowful song; drum of foot, clap of hand, throaty rumble of a stormlord’s throat – the sound of merriment rings late into the night. Nell tries to ask Sansa what is happening, even as the girl turns her in a lively country jig, spinning the words from her lips as they twirl round and round, breathless, bright-cheeked, beaming. Sapphire eyes are bright with tears, but the smile beneath is pure and true; Sansa catches Nell in a fierce embrace, whispers words sweet as her handmaid’s song. _Sweetness, sunlight, a life without shame and shadow – **soon**_ … Shell-pink lips seal their whispers with a kiss to Nell’s cheek before Sansa spins away in the dance and melts into the cacophony of laughter and lyric, leaving her handmaid with soft lips parted in confusion.

“Outside,” comes a voice dark with the smoke of the north at her ear.

He is gone by the time she turns to find his heat, but she feels him even so. She follows the shadow of his steps, threads her way from the press of dancers and passes through the brass-fitted doors. The chill of the air after the firelit warmth of the small hall makes her gasp. Nell breathes it in, feels it open her throat and flood her lungs in a dozen pinpricks that sweep her from the fog of this morrow and pinch her cheeks to wake from dream and step into day. She steps now, sure-foot upon ice-edged cobbles, tilts back her head and bares her throat to winter’s kiss.

“ _If I had a hundred hearts, never would one stray from thee_ ,” she sings softly. “ _If I had a hundred hearts, like seeds in a garden they’d grow for me_ …”

Her eyes upturned to the ink-dark sky, she spins slowly, feels the rush of old joy through her skin, and the warmth of another as she steps back into hard flesh and soft velvet. She does not look over her shoulder; arms find their way around her waist, crossing over her belly and flattening hard hands to her hips. Wild beard glances the cold skin of her throat, a kiss soon follows.

“I knew you would follow,” the voice is dark and deep, a slow rumble from his chest that echoes into her back. “Sweet as sunlight, here you sing.”

Her hands have lowered to cover his own; their fingers thread together. They stand and sway in the moonlight, ice-edged cobbles glittering at their feet, the wind lifting through their hair like the breath of the gods. For a moment, they are home again, watching moonlight play silver and white on red-gold leaves as they drift and twist across the glossy black pool of the godswood. She feels his smile against her neck.

“You are my heart, Nell Northwood,” breathes Ned, lost in her scent of wildflowers and winter. “You’re my bones and blood and breath.” He nestles into her neck. “I am sorry for what I said the night that last we loved.” His lips mark a kiss for every word that falls soft from his tongue; she shivers. “You sowed those secrets long ago – and for good reason. I should not have turfed them up… forgive me?”

Nell feels him shudder against her and turns in his arms. They stand as dancers, his hands circling her waist, her fingers at his shoulders and hair. She brings his face down toward her own and feels his frown flicker where his brow rests against hers. She strokes the dark hair back behind his ears, traces the shells of them with her fingertips. He gives a smile at that and rubs his nose gently against her own.

“Will you forgive me?” she whispers.

“For what, my love?” he asks.

His eyes are winter sea, dark as smoke, grey stone, iron sky, steel and leather and sentinel, _home_ ; she bites her lip. “I forgot you, Ned.” Her voice is a murmur soft as song. “I made a promise to keep us _all_ above the water… but I forgot _you_ , Ned Stark.” He kisses the sting of her teeth away from her bitten lip, swallows her whimper as she opens her mouth on his and draws back breathless. “I am sorry for it, my love.” She grips his wild black beard and twists her brow against his. “Will you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, my love.” His voice is a murmur that floods her tongue, slips sweet as honey into her heart. “You’ve kept us all above the water since that sea of sickness and sorrow swelled near three moons ago… and I see the shadows of its effort shine beneath your eyes.” He brushes his lips across her cheekbone, flowers her jaw with kisses. “You go up with the sun and down with the moon… the _only_ person you forget is yourself.” He draws back and looks full at her, his fingers gently grasping her chin as he turns her face up to meet his searching lips. “Let me back in, Nell Northwood – let me love you.” He gives a soft little smile. “Please, my love.”

“Aye, all right,” she whispers, and they both smile at the northern smoke that wraps her voice to mirror his. “I’ll try, Ned Stark.”

Later, they are halfway to sleep in the little red-curtained bed when Nell lifts her head from its pillow on the plump muscle of Ned’s chest and blinks up at him. He looks down at her heavy-lidded, a half-smile quirked on his lips, and runs his fingers through the black silk of her hair. She leans into his touch, her starlit eyes narrowed.

“Why the dancing?” she asks sleepily. “Why _this_ evenfall?”

Ned lifts her toward him with a great hand on her waist. She gives an indignant rumble as he lays her flush against him and steals the sleepy sound grumbling up from her throat with a kiss that leaves her red-lipped and breathless. He smiles then, and settles her back beneath his arm, smoothing her hair with sword-rough fingers as she lays her cheek to his chest with a sigh.

“I was told a tale of a broken harp this noonday,” murmurs Ned, sighing as they bleed their warmth together. “It reminded me of everything I must needs fix.” She feels his lips feather-light on the top of her head as his arm tightens around her: an anchor in dream and day. “Sleep now, my love.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Black and white and grey_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 43: Eddard XI.  
> 2\. _It was all meant for Brandon_ … lifted from _A Game of Thrones_ Chapter 6: Catelyn II.  
> 3\. Verse lifted from Kate Rusby’s gorgeous song _Hundred Hearts_.  
> 4\. A song of three, still: shadows, secrets, sweetness… but wolf-pup and winter rose move to throw sunlight upon them all and set love in place of loss.


	22. Worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**.

A soft knock at the door casts fire on dreams of frost. _Tully eyes blue and bright as ice, a king’s kind curse, a handmaid’s prayer before the heart tree, a ward’s whisperings of ward to wife_ … Nell wakes with a whimper, her cheek flushed from its perch against Ned’s hot hard chest. He bare stirs beneath her as she lifts her head from his warmth and blinks dream-drunk at the door to her chamber. His fingers flutter like butterflies on her hair as she slips from his arms and makes toward the doorway on silent feet. She picks up a candle from the hearthside and peeks out into the gloom of the galley; Vayon Poole’s sleep-soft eyes glow in the candleflame, as does the golden wax on the summons he proffers. _Sting of grief_ , thinks Nell as she reads the green-black ink. _A wailing winter rose in need of a soft-sung lullaby_. Ned stays soundly sleeping as she laces gown and cloak and slips from the red-warm room, the scent of rosewater drifting from the hearth as the flames lick up the letter.

Remnants of the eve’s firelit feast still echo across the middle bailey: sherds of bone-cups eking ale onto the icy cobblestones, an upturned brazier smoking like breath in the night, somewhere a drunken guardsman snoring in his nest along the curtain wall. Elsewise, the castle is quiet as the river’s whisper beyond the pale crimson stones. Nell moves as a shadow amongst wraiths and spirts and ghosts of dreams, soft-stepped boots cutting a path through frost limned to flame by the flickering torches. She is met at Maegor’s Holdfast by two guardsmen, each as broad-shouldered and blue-eyed as the other; they lead her in through the oaken doors, silent and solemn as ever. She makes to turn toward the twist of the stone stair up to Sansa’s chambers, but they shake their heads and point instead down the half-lit galley; Nell looks at them with narrowed eyes, understanding at once who sent her the gold-sealed summons.

Fireflame flickers merrily in the darkwood hearth, limning the chamber half a hundred shades of crimson, orange, yellow. Nell follows a steward through the narrow doorway, feels his fingers slipping the cloak from her shoulders, and watches him fade from the chamber before she can give him thanks. It is a patchwork of ebony and silver, this firelit room at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast; but the woman who sits wizened before the hearth is a tapestry of green-and-gold. Gnarled fingers glittering with gold-and-emerald rings waft up, beckoning. Nell follows their summons, sits in one of the high-backed chairs drawn close beside the fire, and feels the icy kiss of the world without fade from her cheeks.

“No wailing winter rose, it seems,” says Nell softly.

Olenna Tyrell peers at her with gold-brown eyes bright as the flames in the darkwood hearth. She wears a heavy robe of emerald brocade, but her feet are bare and blue on the Myrish rugs thrown over sweet-smelling rushes. Her white hair is a braid reaching as a wisp to her hips; without her gable hood, she looks smaller, softer. She offers Nell a silver-plated cup, takes a swallow from her own, and runs the spiced wine around her toothless mouth.

“I did not think you’d come elsewise, child,” says Olenna, wiping a drop of the warm wine from her lip. “Moon-high as it is with all the castle dead asleep.”

Nell glances from the flames to the midnight sky shining inky-blue through the tall windows at the far end of the chamber. “Most of the castle,” she counters softly. “Not all.” She takes a sip of wine, feels its heat burn off some of the frost of sleep. “The girls may have made their peace with the river… but their lady mother haunts my dreams.” She gives a shiver even as the fire pulses the room full of warmth. “I see her eyes most nights – blue as ice, calling my name as murderer.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” says Olenna, her thin white brows lowering. “Seems to me she should be calling your name as martyr not murderer… you have kept her family afloat whilst all she has done is lie amongst the riverbed half a kingdom away.” She gives a derisive snort. “Up and down, down and up – how could you have found the _time_ to murder Catelyn Tully?” There is humour in her sharp stare. “Unless you are some woodswitch that conjured up a bloody flux and sent it by dark magic to swarm the walls of Riverrun… I jest, child, I _jest_.” Her soft chuckle fades to a sigh at the horror on Nell’s face. “Seems to me the entire court has forgotten what it is to laugh. The flux is faded fast as it formed – yet still they skulk about scared of their own shadows.” She spreads her hands. “ _Men_.”

“Men have died,” says Nell quietly, meeting those sharp gold-brown eyes. “Tyrell men as well as Tully.”

The Queen of Thorns nods at that, her eyes busy as the flames flickering in the darkwood hearth. “You speak the truth, child,” she murmurs. “Tyrell, Tully, lady, lord, soldier, serf… did _you_ murder all of them, too?” She narrows her eyes. “Or was it my oafish son? _He_ is the one who sent his little roses north along the River Road after all. Or was it me? _I_ was the one who birthed the oaf to send the roses north in the first place.” She finds Nell’s hand, grips her fingers tightly. “This web of blame is thick and treacherous… best you cut yourself out of it, Nell Northwood.” She settles back into her chair. “The gods know you never should have been _in_ it to begin with.”

“The gods know I prayed them for more,” says Nell bitterly, her fingers ice-cold around the cup of warm wine. “The gods know I prayed them for a life out of the shadows… for a life of sunlight and sweetness and smiles free of shame.” She frowns at the fire, swallows thickly. “The gods _took_ a life for those prayers – they did not _give_ one.” Their eyes meet in a flash of flame. “Who is to blame for that, the gods or the handmaid who prayed before their heart tree?”

“Catelyn Tully is dead,” says Olenna Tyrell, voice as prickly as her nickname. “Near three moons she has laid at the bottom of that three-forked river she loved so much, soft as the water that rushes over the reeds, food to silver trout, friend to ghosts.” She sips noisily at her wine-cup. “Her daughters live and _thrive_ , child.” Her tone is softer now. “Her sons are hale and hearty in the north – and her widower makes his peace and moves as a wolf in this court of men and fools.” She finds Nell’s hands again, her varnished nails digging into soft skin and slender fingers. “All thanks to _you_ , Nell Northwood: the ward treading constant as the salt sea at the wolf’s side.” Her eyes are soft as her voice. “The gods know one thing for now and for true, child… you could be more than ward. You could be – ”

“Don’t say it,” snaps Nell, dragging her fingers free. “Call me murderer, call me martyr, call me whore, call me _anything_ – but don’t say _that_ , Lady Olenna, I beg you.” She feels tears thicken her throat. “The king tried much the same, kind words of a royal decree and a wedding before a heart tree… they cut as a curse that haunt my dreams alongside those eyes of ice.” Her heart is bursting. “Don’t say it, please.”

“You think you are not worthy to take the title of _lady_ , is that it?” asks Olenna, unperturbed by the tremor in Nell’s voice, the tears on her soft cheeks. “You guard your secrets well, child, but I know them all the same. Northwood was a clever bit of thinking, but I know as well as you your true name.” Their eyes meet, flickering wild as the flames in the darkwood hearth. “Elenore of the House _Ork_ wood, that noble seat at Orkmont Isle to the _north_ of Pyke.” Olenna shakes her head, a soft smile on her thin lips. “You’ve never been a whore or a low-born handmaid, have you?” Nell sets her jaw silently. “Granted your lord father dismissed you from his sea-swept isle after the death of your mother… but he never _disowned_ you.” Her gold-brown eyes glow warmly. “You sit below the seven great houses as most the realm does – but your little iron ship of green-and-yellow sails bobs halfway amongst those lesser ranks.” She spreads her hands with a contented hum. “A _perfectly_ viable match for any lord that wanted you.”

“A thimbleful of noble blood does not make a woman worthy of anything, my lady.” Nell’s voice is tired as her eyes staring blankly at the hearth. “Half my life on Pyke I spent scrubbing pans in the kitchens, red-raw hands, perfumed by woodsmoke, grabbed at by ironmen and traders.” She closes her eyes, memories long sown as secrets in the soil of her heart threatening to tear loose. “If any had known who my father was, Balon Greyjoy would have picked me to be his salt wife much sooner.” She works her jaw, fighting off the tears glossing her blue-grey eyes. “Yet even silence in the scullery could not save me from those hands cold as kelp… I was two-and-ten when the Lord Reaper first brought me to his bed.” She feels his hands now, trails of salt ice-cold on her skin. “When Ned saved me from the sea that day, I told him all, I told him _everything_ – and he took me away from a lifetime of handprints and hurts.” She finds the silver wolf’s head circling her throat, smooths it with her thumb. “But Northwood I stayed, to keep me safe from the scent of that lord of salt and storm half a world away.” Their eyes meet; Nell gives a sad little smile. “A thimbleful of noble blood burns in my veins, for true… but it is not enough to wash away a lifetime of unworthiness.”

“I’ll grant your wish and not call you _wife_ , Nell Northwood,” says Olenna sharply. “I’ll call you _fool_ instead.” She narrows her eyes, pinpricks in petal-soft skin. “As big a fool as that lord of ice and snow you love so dearly. The both of you wrap yourselves in shame and secrets – him for honour, you for fear… even now when there is no need for it.” She sets down her wine-cup and grasps both of Nell’s hands, pulling her close. “Tell me, do you think a love that shines so bright as yours was _ever_ kept a secret from this court of spies and spiders? Do you think the little ladies who have cooed over it and wished for a love so sweet to be their own care a fig for noble blood and worthiness – my granddaughter and your sweet Sansa amongst them?” Her white braid rustles softly as she tilts her head. “You are _worthy_ , child – worthy of happiness and full heart as much as any other lady at court.”

“No,” says Nell softly, looking at the weave of their fingers: ice-cold bone-white against rings of emerald-and-gold. “No… _no_.”

Varnished nails dig into soft flesh. “Mother, widow, or whore, I asked you that day on the steps of Baelor’s sept,” says Olenna. “Now I know the answer.” Their eyes meet in a flare of gold and blue. “ _Mother_ to those children you love fiercer than a she-wolf guards her pups, _widow_ to a lifetime of cold kisses and blue bruises got on Pyke… and _whore_ to the ironwood barrel of shame you’ve hefted from that storm-swept place and let follow you around all your life.” She smooths her gnarled thumbs over the backs of Nell’s hands now and smiles. “Strike a hole in that barrel, Nell Northwood, and we will watch it sink together whilst you stand safe ashore with a cloak of grey-and-white upon your shoulders.” Her smile is soft as her gold-brown eyes. “Men have died, for true – but you _live_ , child. Let yourself live with a little joy to light those lovely eyes.”

“Joy is a dream for spring,” whispers Nell stubbornly.

“Seasons twist with the coin of change,” says Olenna, a knowing brow lifting whip-sharp. “Summer is long dead, autumn dwindles – winter strides mean and hungry as the hour of the wolf.” She gives a soft smile sweet as the rosewater curling up off her heavy robe. “The wolf, for true… _and_ the ward at his side.” She spreads her hands, settles against her high-backed chair. “ _That_ is where the wolf and his ward will find their joy – not in spring’s sweet blooms… but side-by-side in winter’s white winds.”

ლ

Chill air and charred rose petals, Ned wakes with the taste of his dream still sweet on his lips. He blinks heavy-lidded eyes at the velvet canopy of the little red-curtained bed and groans to have been torn from lingering shards of sleep. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ , he thinks as he runs hand over his brow. _Two souls in the shadows of a heart tree_ … He can still see soft lips shaping softer words, blue-grey eyes set in a heart-shaped face, a crown of wildflowers upon a head of dragonglass turned to embers in the sunlight. He turns his head upon the pillow, but finds the bed empty of hands and heat. His heart sinks, the warmth of his dream fading in a breath as soft dawn light fills the chamber thick as the scent of rosewater swirling up from the hearth. _Gone from me_ , he thinks grimly. _Slipped from me like a shadow in the night_. Even so, he lifts his head from the pillow and looks for her with weary certainty, knowing he will find the window seat empty as his heart –

“Nell.” His voice comes from his throat in a garbled grunt. “ _Nell_.”

She stands before the tall leaded window, her winter-bright cheeks a glow of honey as the sunlight crests the hills without; he feels the ice thaw from his heart. Blue-grey and brilliant, her eyes fix on his as she shrugs the frost-edged cloak from her shoulders and pulls the ribbons of her bodice free. Sleeves and skirts and shift, he watches as wool and velvet and heavy linen pool amongst the bearskins and Myrish rugs scattered over the flagstones. Her hair flows loose down her back: a wave of dragonglass turned to embers by the soft dawn light. She is naked now, her ribs rippling up like sails to the wind as she hitches a breath and steps toward the bed.

“Ned,” says Nell softly. “I’m here, love.”

It is a frenzy, this reunion of their flesh after near three months chaste kisses and sleep-heavy holds. Nell gives a whimper and near runs the last steps to the bed; Ned pulls her flush against him as she trips over the oaken frame and tangles her hands in the crimson curtains. She is icy as the morrow, her skin half a thousand prickles that rise beneath the sweep of his fingers. She twines around him like ivy, her hands on his face, her legs wrapped tight about his back as she rocks on his lap and takes his lips in a fleeting kiss that tastes of chill air and charred rose petals. He gives a groan as her fingers circle his cock and her hips lift beneath his palmprints and she glides down onto him, cloaking him in fire even as her skin stings as frost against his thighs.

“I am a green boy again,” murmurs Ned, biting her neck as she moves on him.

A breathy little moan floods past her full lips; she tilts back her head and eddies her hips to meet his thrust. His fingers slot into the crooks of her ribs, gripping tight as he lifts her, lowers her, rocks her back and forth upon him and lets her ride out her pleasure till she is boneless and breathless, hot as dripping candlewax in his arms, wild as winter’s white winds, her skin sweet as fire and frost beneath his tongue. She sags backwards onto the featherbed, pulls him down with her grip at his beard, spreads her thighs beneath his weight and takes him deeper inside. His heart is on fire now as well as his cock; ripples of white-hot pleasure grip at his lungs, burst in his belly, flood down his spine.

“Ned,” breathes Nell, her eyes dream-drunk on his as he sets her thighs to trembling with his rhythm. “Oh, _Ned_.” Her fingers tangle in the wild beard, drag his face down, her plush lips parting beneath his kiss; she bites his lip, frowning as he presses deeper. “You are the sweetest feeling, my love… sweet and sharp all at once.”

Ned catches hold of her wrists, presses them into the pillows above her head. “I thought you were gone from me,” he growls, diving to nip her throat. “I thought you had slipped away like a shadow in the night.” He moans as she lifts her hips and rocks him to madness; he jams his brow against hers and steals her smile with a kiss that leaves them both breathless. “My heart was broken as that wretched harp.”

“I _was_ gone, for true.” She is red-lipped and panting, writhing as his thumbs press hard against the flesh of her wrists. “Near three months… and I am sorry for it.” She arches up from the bed; he groans at the fire in her eyes. “But I am back now, Ned Stark.”

Ned slows his hips a moment, leans back with his belly pressed hot and hard against hers, and stares down at her with eyes the soft grey of summer storm. Her wrists are still captive in the span of his fingers above her head, but she surges up from the bed again and captures his lips with her own, drawing him back down against her with a kiss that melts the last of the ice from his bones, fans the fire in his belly, sets his heart aglow.

“I belong here,” he breathes, feathering her jaw with kisses as she shivers and sighs beneath him. “Hearth and home and heart tree… you will forever be all three to me, my love.” He feels his throat thicken as her brow flickers and her lips swell in a soft moan. “Promise me you’ll never leave my side again, Nell Northwood.”

“I promise, Ned.” Her eyes are starlit sea, calling him, drowning him. “Be it in shadows or sunlight… I will always be by your side, my love.” She bites her lip as he slides into her again, slow and full; he kisses the sting of her teeth from her mouth and swallows her moan. “Always.” Her head rolls against the pillows, her fingers whispering against his as she gives a smile that bursts his heart. “Before a heart tree, I’ll make that promise.”

His heart aches in his chest, but there is no pain; love fires his blood and blooms between his ribs. _Two souls in the shadows of a heart tree_ … Dream and day become one as he looks into her eyes. They share a smile now as they share most else: flesh, mind, heart. He sinks his mouth on hers, relief flooding thick as sunlight the warm belly of the room as her legs tighten around his back and she comes with a cry against his lips. _Wedding vows and winter roses_. A wordless promise that floods his tongue as the grey smoke of his eyes floods starlit sea. He releases her wrists, rubs his nose against hers as her fingers fall to clutch at his back. _I will make my own promise to you before a heart tree come the morrow_ … She reads the shadows flitting across his grey eyes; quick as soft-fallen snow, he kisses her frown away, tries to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

ლ

Half a dozen letters sit amongst the scatter of black bread and bacon, glowing like little licks of fireflame as the sunlight floods through the narrow windows into the small hall. Nell watches through her lashes as Ned steadfastly ignores them, pushing parchment and scroll aside as he lifts the lord’s cup from the ashwood table and takes a swallow of small ale. She watches the lip of the silver-plated cup press against the wild black beard, and thinks of the smile he gave her as they moved together in soft dawn light. _A sweet smile shaped soft as secrets_ , she thinks. He catches hold of her narrowed eyes and gives the same smile again, setting down the cup atop a prim-pressed letter. _What are you up to, Ned Stark?_ She frowns as she ponders him.

“Will you watch me this morrow, Nell?” comes a voice at her side. “Syrio says we are to fight blindfolded… it’s all about seeing, Nellie – _true_ seeing.”

Nell turns from her thoughts and looks down at Arya’s sleek dark head as she bounds up from the bench and balances on one boot, grey eyes widened in question. Nell has scarce managed to nod before Arya grins and dashes from the small hall, her footsteps ringing loudly across the middle bailey. Septa Mordane excuses herself shortly after, gathering up her soft grey robes and heading out into the chill sunshine of the morrow. A handful of guards still eating start and curse once Jory Cassel’s steely shout echoes from the galley; they fade as mist from the small hall, leaving half-ripped loaves and scattered crumbs in their wake. Once their chatter fades, quiet swells thick as the sunlight flooding the narrow windows. Nell feels his eyes on her, setting her blood to flame, her heart to flutter.

“You’ve the stare and smile of a wolf this morrow, Ned Stark,” says Nell, her voice soft as sunlight in the empty hall. “What _are_ you planning?”

“Come here,” says Ned, voice dark and smoky. “And I’ll tell you.”

His eyes are wolf-wild and fixed on hers as Nell steps slowly toward the lord’s chair at the head of the ashwood table, her head tilted in question. She slips between Ned and the trestle table, but he twists his hands into the gown at her hips and pulls roughly, growling as she tumbles onto his lap. She tips back her head as his lips find her throat, tracing patterns that still burn from his kisses earlier this morrow. His teeth sink into her skin fleetingly; she rolls her head and levels her face with his, a half-smile on her lips.

“You whisper of promises,” says Nell softly. “Sansa sings to me of sunlight and sweetness and shame and shadow.” She reads the fire in his eyes as her breath mists his lips; his teeth graze her chin. “Arya talks to me of wildflower crowns and gowns of wedding white… and Olenna Tyrell…” She pauses as he groans against her mouth, his fingers sliding to clutch at her waist. “Olenna Tyrell calls me to her chambers halfway through the night to talk to me of Orkwood blood and a handmaid’s worthiness.” She leans back against his hands, her fingers grasping the plump muscles of his shoulders as she tilts her head and narrows her eyes at him. “What are you _all_ planning, Ned Stark?”

“Kiss me,” murmurs Ned. “And I’ll tell you.”

“ _Ned_ …” her voice is a low warning that melts against the warmth of his mouth on hers. “Mmm, tell me.” Her eyes widen and a gasp escapes her lips as he hefts her up off his lap and onto the table. “ _Ned_.” The warning is fire in her throat, embers in her eyes; he smiles wolfishly up at her, his fingers rough and hot gliding beneath her skirts. “Enough… _enough_.” But her voice is feeble as the silk of her thighs opening up for his palms; she is hot as he, dawn-lit kisses only serving to make them both hungrier. “Gods, Ned, not _here_.” A hiss that dissolves to a low moan as his mouth closes on the glow of warmth between her legs, kissing and sucking till she is flat-back against the ashwood table, her hair a cloud of ink bleeding with the scattered loaves and letters.

Nell grips at the papers as her fingers writhe and clasp: letters sealed with the blue-green wax of House Manderly, the brown-and-green of House Tallhart, the flame-red of House Umber, half a hundred more that swirl to shades of fire before her eyes as Ned’s kiss sends her arch-backed and keening.

“Your bannermen send you letters telling of their pretty daughters and prettier dowries.” Her voice is a whimper as he draws on her softly, his fingers tracing circles on her hipbones. “Is _this_ your answer?” Her thighs tighten against his head, a cry pulled like a thread of fire from her throat. “Gods, _Ned_.”

She is breathless and boneless when at last he lifts his face from between her thighs, his hands catching at her hips and pulling her back onto his lap. Her fingers tangle into his damp beard, yank him into a kiss that robs his breath and makes him smile wolf-wild as his eyes. He runs his hand over the silk of her hair, his fingers finding the small of her back and pressing her closer to him as he kisses her again, softer this time.

“What should my answer be?” asks Ned, searching her eyes as his thumb rubs gently against her back. “What do _you_ want my answer to be?”

Heat and hunger dissolve in a moment; they gaze at each other as shadows and sunlight dance around them. From without, laughter lilts and drifts, filling the small hall sweet as the light flooding the high windows. _Sweet as song, soft as secrets_ … Ned lifts a brow, patient as a wolf stalking his prey; Nell gives a reluctant smile, smoothing the dark hair back from his face, her breath a sigh as she glances from him to the letters glowing as licks of flame behind them and thinks of all that can never be. _A royal decree – and a wedding before a heart tree_ … He catches her chin in his great hand, turns her back to face him, his gaze intent on hers.

“I want your answer to be what is right for the girls,” says Nell carefully, her blue-grey eyes soft and sad and sweet as her fingers on his cheeks. “I want for them all that is good and true and proper… I want a lady for you who is _worthy_ of them, my love.” She smiles even as her heart aches. “A lady who is hale and hearty and has known only happiness in her life – not shame and shadows.” Her throat is thick with tears as she dips her smile to brush against his lips. “Find a lady like that from your bannermen’s letters… and I’ll stand happy as any at your wedding, Ned Stark.”

“Aye,” whispers Ned, deepening their kiss before drawing back with a smile soft as hers. “You will stand happy, Nell Northwood… that I promise.” He kisses her cheek now, tapping his palm against her back gently. “Now off with you, my love, a wolf-pup waits for you to watch her at play.”

Nell feels his eyes on her as she leaves him with a last kiss and slips as a shadow through the sunlit small hall. She glances over her shoulder as she nears the brass-fitted doors and sees him watching her still, his lips half-lifted beneath the wild black beard. _A sweet smile shaped soft as secrets_ … Ned slides his thumb beneath the flame-red wax of one of the letters; Nell turns away and slips out into the chill sunshine. _What are you up to, Ned Stark?_ A blackbird sings, a wolf-pup howls, steel-song echoes with laughter across the cobblestones; Nell moves into the icy air with a smile on her face, and a tiny ember of hope flickering bravely in her heart.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Dark dreams grow bright, secrets of blood slip out, wolf and ward grow warm as the world gets ever colder, winter rose and wolf-pup bound happy as can be… but what _are_ they all planning?  
>  **NB** : In regard to Northwood/Orkwood, I have entertained this idea since the very beginning, but wanted to wait and see if it would ever fit plot-wise. Here (I hope) it finds a perfect anchor: a blood-bond that hopefully demonstrates how Nell’s insecurities and struggles at feeling worthy have never stemmed from easy issues of parentage/social standing, but from deeper-set emotions and experiences.


	23. Heart Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NB** : continues directly on from Nell leaving the small hall at the end of the last chapter - also mildly **NSFW**.

Noonday finds the Red Keep quiet, and the small hall a scatter of sunlight and half-opened letters. Ned runs a hand over his face, gives a wan sigh to taste the smoke of her still lingering on the wild black beard covering his cheeks. _Am I wolf or man?_ He knows the answer – he can bare hide the boyish smile lifting his lips at the thought of her arch-backed atop the ashwood table, her fingers clutching at plates and cups and papers, her plush little mouth red-warm and moaning, a look of fire in her eyes to match her black hair glowed to embers in the sunlight. His fingers flex with bare diminished hunger and he shakes his head, chiding himself softly. _Wolf_ , he decides, frowning away his smile at last and shuffling through the letters splayed before him.

Wax of half a hundred different shades: flame-red, sea-green, earthy-brown, rose-pink. Seals of half a hundred houses: north, south, west, riverlands, westerlands, crownlands. _Pretty daughters and prettier dowries_ … Ned gives a derisive snort and throws the letters down, pulling at his beard as he watches the sunlight slip shadows across the empty benches and bare stone walls. They bob and twist like boats on a current. _Ships of ice and iron_. Ned feels his heart swell to watch them, remembering his dream of blue-grey eyes and soft lips shaping softer words. _Two souls in the shadows of a heart tree_ … He glances back at the letters and knows his answer – as he has always known it, deep between the crooks of his ribs. Even so, he sits for an age, sorting through paper and parchment, scroll and scrap, breaking wax, frowning at every offer made by ally and lukewarm acquaintance alike. _Eight-and-ten, clear eyes, red-brown hair_ … He shakes his head to read it – to read them all; wonders at how fathers write of daughters as if they are cows run to market. _Did **I** do that to tie together wolf and rose?_ He remembers the sweet smiles and soft-spun dances of Sansa’s wedding day and crumples up the letter, considering it all wearily.

“Pass them onto Renly, will you?” comes a booming voice from halfway down the benches. “It’s pastime my sweet brother was wed.”

“ _Honey-hipped and young_ ,” reads Ned from a curling letter bearing the seal of a lesser lord in the crownlands. “ _Good teeth, excellent manners_ … gods, Robert, are they selling their daughters or their destriers?”

Robert laughs at that, a fat happy sound rolling high to the rafters as he sits beside Ned at the trestle table. Soft-stepped servants bring fresh-baked bread and horns of ale to the table. Soon, the small hall is abuzz with their chatter and chuckle as they put aside the mantle of king and hand and don the easy laughter of brothers. They laugh together, breaking bread, sipping ale. Robert makes comments as he sifts through a stack of letters bearing seals from the stormlands; Ned closes his eyes to hear which maidens the king has past _knowledge_ of – and which castles he dare not visit now for fear of paternal wroth. He opens them again to smile wanly as Robert swears he is _done_ with whoring, content enough with his rose-cheeked wife waddling heavy with his child in her belly; they clank their bone-cups together at that.

“Almost forgot,” says Robert, storm-blue eyes widening as he rummages in his pocket and draws out a bundle of cloth. “From Tobho Mott’s own fair forge… he had not forgotten you, my friend.” His eyes narrow, his brow quirking. “Said you paid him a visit half a lifetime ago before that fabled tourney held in your good honour.”

Ned picks up the blot of cloth, slips it into his pocket and raises a brow. “He offered to forge me a helm in the shape of a direwolf,” he says evenly. “Said it would be so fearsome children would run from me in the street.” A low chuckle lifts from his throat even as he thinks of a black-haired boy in a barn of bellows. “No doubt he thought you turning up to his shop meant he was in for a sack of gold – not a bag of silver.”

“Not even that,” says Robert, his storm-blue eyes softening, a half-smile lifting behind his great black beard. “Once I let slip the trinket was for you, he refused even silver – said he owed you more than a bull’s weight in gold and wouldn’t take even a crown.” He shakes his head and shrugs. “Queer old Qohorik, that man.”

_He knows nothing_ , thinks Ned as he gives a guileless smile. _Of a bull helm and a black-haired boy full of fire, he knows nothing_ … He hides his frown, runs a hand over the cloth bundle in his pocket, and fights long-dormant thoughts of bastard boy and bellow-barn from his head. He remembers the boy’s storm-blue eyes and surly face, strong hand gripping a hammer, splotches of white peppering his hands. _Bellows and burns, the sum lot of a king’s forgotten bastard… mayhap one day I will bring the boy away from that forge and see him right_. He looks from Robert chattering happily through a mouthful of ale and gazes toward the half-open doors of the small hall, watches as the torches bob and twist in the chill breeze blowing up from the middle bailey: shadow boats on a sunlit current. _Ships of ice and iron_. Ned strokes the cloth-wrapped bundle with his thumb and feels the sunlight steal amongst his ribs, blooming like fire in his belly to chase away doubts of kings and boys and barns of bellows. _I’ll see her right first – iron to ice, salt to snow, ward to_ –

“I have relayed the meeting of the small council to the morrow.” Robert’s voice cuts through Ned’s thoughts. “Varys tried to dissuade me with whispers of his little birds… but a day like this dawns for one thing – _hunting_.” A white grin glitters behind his black beard. “Whispers can wait till the morrow.” He claps Ned on the shoulder and lumbers up from his seat. “Set your letters straight and get yourself on a horse, Ned Stark. I mean to flush a boar this time.”

ლ

The Queen’s Ballroom is a flush of silver-flame and dainty plates bearing half a hundred kinds of fruit from the Reach: figs, cherries, pears, fire apples. They are all the shades of forest and feast gathered in their dishes and bowls. _Flowers of autumn_ , thinks Nell to look upon the mix of red and green and russet. _Sweet as a smile shaped soft as secrets_. To her dismay, the green-and-gold roses she sits amongst have smiles near as slippery sweet as Ned’s this morrow – Sansa most of all. _What are you up to, Sansa Stark?_ She keeps hold of Nell’s hand as they sit at the ebony table swept up in a merry storm of chatter; once or twice, Nell feels her tremble and looks to see her smile growing sweeter at every squeeze of her fingers. _What are you **all** up to?_ Nell narrows her eyes as Sansa blinks at her innocently and pushes a cup of Arbor gold into her free hand.

They sup on roast boar and bowls of grilled leeks and pumpkins. Margaery proffers a dish of pickled peaches and is met with a sea of shaking heads. Nell watches with amusement as the little green-and-gold roses bob up and down like boats on a current, delicate noses wrinkling at the smell of the queen’s pretty silver-plated dish, eyes averting from soft fruit in a soup of brine. Finally, Olenna Tyrell picks one from the bowl with the point of her eating-knife, smiles sweetly as she flings it across the table and into the darkwood hearth. They turn to watch it shrivel up to smoke, and laughter rings loud and true until Margaery gives a wince to feel the babe kicking her to quiet. Talk soon turns to birthing balms and Baratheon blood; Nell sits quiet and content, a rush of warmth flaring in her heart to see Sansa move so free and happy amongst her little swell of autumn flowers.

“About time for tea, isn’t it?” asks a sharp voice from her left.

Nell turns to see the Queen of Thorns shuffling into the seat beside her, a froth of emerald brocade spilling like vines to the sweet-smelling rushes underfoot. Her cheeks are petal-soft, her eyes pin-sharp beneath the heavy gable hood drawn low on her brow; but she meets Nell’s eyes with a smile to soften her stare. They sit quietly for a moment amongst the drone of honeybees circling their brightest flower grown sleep-heavy as her belly. Maids bring out pots of peppermint tea and plates piled high with lemon cakes; Nell pours out two cups and they sip silently.

“A chill day, isn’t it?” asks Olenna after a time, her varnished nails tapping the china tea-cup half-lifted to her lips. “Almost as though winter’s white winds have swept in already.” Their eyes meet: a flare of gold and blue. “Have you thought on what I said yester-eve, Nell Northwood?”

“What is there to think on, Lady Olenna?” says Nell evenly, staring intently at the untouched lemon cake set before her. “Winter _is_ coming, for true… and my lord makes move to find himself a wife to keep hearth and home warm when the white winds blow.” She narrows her eyes, grasps the cake between her fingers and tears it softly in two. “A _worthy_ wife who will see the girls right – joy does not come into it.”

“From where?” says Olenna, lifting a thorny brow. “The _south_? She’d crumble like a summer bloom in winter’s white winds. Even a glass house couldn’t save her.” She waves a dismissive hand, fireflame catching on her gold-and-emerald rings. “ _Look_ at them all huddled as honeybees around my granddaughter, wrapped in as many furs as their maids can find – and _still_ they shiver.” She rips Nell’s hand away from the torn-up cake and gives a chuckle. “Sweet summer children, _not_ flowers of autumn as you are like to call them… Eddard Stark needs none of _that_ sort.”

“You told me yester-eve to cut myself from the web of blame,” says Nell carefully, wiping the crumbs from her fingers. “Now I find myself in a different web in its stead, Lady Olenna.” She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “A web of secrets woven by half a hundred hands: wolf and winter rose and Queen of Thorns prince amongst them.” A half-smile lifts her lips in challenge. “You are all planning something, I _know_ it.”

Nell watches as Olenna and Sansa exchange a glance from across the chamber; Margaery, too, beneath a face of feigned indifference. Half a dozen green-and-gold roses, as well, bobbing flowerheads as they nod and giggle behind their dainty hands. Nell narrows her eyes at all of them, setting down her tea-cup with a frown.

“You don’t _know_ it, not yet,” says Olenna, turning back with glittering gold-brown eyes. “But you will, Nell Northwood… you will know it soon enough.”

Butterbumps bounds into the room before Nell can counter the joy glimmering in Olenna Tyrell’s eyes and cut to quick the giggles of the rest of the flowerheads nodding by the hearthside. They sit in soft-warm silence instead, broken by bursts of laughter and clapping hands as the fool sings a bawdy song or two, juggles oranges, and blows seeds out of his nose. Nell remembers another fool as she watches him caper and cartwheel around the firelit chamber. _If only Baelish the Bold had been honest in his motley as Butterbumps_ , she thinks wryly. _He might have lived to jest and jape another day_ … Yet silver eyes are long gone, burnt to ash as the little silver bells that jangled once so sharp across day and dream; and she is glad of it, as she is glad of most else this day of sunlight and smiles. She shares the sweet little smile peppering all the happy faces she sits amongst – even as she knows nothing of their secret.

ლ

Hunting takes all the day and half the night; Ned is bone-tired and aching as he turns from the stables and crosses the cobbles to the Tower of the Hand. Behind him, Robert’s voice drifts happily to give direction to the men carrying forth the boar he flushed from the feather-frosted forest sometime after dusk. Its blood smoked from the killing blow as it twitched on soil dark as night, eking up thin columns of mist into the darkening air; Ned wipes the stain of it from his palm. _Winter is coming_ , he thinks, his eyes flickering skyward. A handful of stars shine like flecks of flame, but already the eastern hills are glowing. He makes his way up to his solar, sits a while by the window, thinking of dreams and day, shadows and secrets, sweetness and sunlight. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ … When he wakes, slouch-backed in his chair, the darkness of night is beginning to give way to a pearl-lit dawn. _Two souls in the shadow of a heart tree_ … He lifts himself from his chair and walks where fate calls him.

Sleep weighs heavy as silence when Ned wakes Nell with a soft kiss that steals her sigh. He feels his heart ache with love to see her blink up at him, frowning between dreams and wakefulness, her plush lips gathered in a crooked smile. He kisses her again then, because he cannot help it. Her fingers find grip in his dark hair and begin to pull him back with her into the nest of furs and sheets in the little red-curtained bed; he stops her with a chuckle and pulls her up with his hands about her waist. She stands with that bemused smile soft on her lips as he moves to and fro in the pre-dawn light, gathering her gown and cloak, lacing her up with a practised ease that makes her laugh. _Sweet_ , he thinks to hear that sound. _Sweet as life begun again_ …

Ned takes her by the hand and leads her down the stone stair of the Tower of the Hand. It is shadowy and silent as the yard without as they slip through the brass-fitted doors and step onto cobblestones hard-iced by the night. The sun is still a dream far off behind the eastern hills; but stray shades of its light peek between pearl-heavy clouds and mix with the guttering braziers to turn the world to firelit frost. Her little hand is firm in his, slender and cold woven between his sword-rough fingers. _Sweet, so sweet_. He rubs his thumb across the back of her hand and feels the ache grow in his heart. _Sweet as a blackbird’s song_ … Somewhere, the blackbird hears his thoughts; its song breaks the silence of the morrow, weaves a merry tune to dip amongst the clouds of pearl and cobbles of frost. It follows them as they make a path through the godswood, grows stronger and sweeter still when Ned turns Nell beneath the half-bare boughs of the great heart tree and kisses her amongst its drifting leaves and crooked roots.

“Did you bring me here before the dawn just to kiss me?” whispers Nell.

“No,” murmurs Ned, kissing her again.

They look at each other – and soft smiles and sweet kisses fade in an instant as hunger clouds their eyes like smoke. Ned sinks down amongst the leaves, the oak tree hard comfort at his back, his grip pulling Nell onto his lap. Clasps and cloaks shifted and slipped; her fingers find the warm flesh of his shoulders and squeeze gently. He pushes aside the folds of her cloak and slips the ribbons of her bodice free, his fingers parting the silk chemise to get at the velvet of her breasts. Her plush lips part in a soft little moan as he dips his head and engulfs an ice-hard peak with his mouth, darting and rolling till she grips his hair and pulls him back, breathless, to meet her kiss. Frantic, she scrabbles at his laces and kisses him harder; he slides her skirts up around her waist, his fingers whispering along smooth skin as the swell of her thighs spreads and she lifts herself up and sinks down onto him so swiftly they both give a moan that shatters the shadows of the godswood.

The way they move is reflexive, natural, _knowing_ – even here, amongst pearl-capped leaves and frost-edged soil. Ned feels her ribs rise against his palms as he grips her waist, bites his lip to feel the prick of her nails dig into his neck as she rolls her hips and pulls him deeper. _Winter is coming_ , he thinks to watch their breath billow up like smoke from their mouths, twisting to one as it drifts with falling leaves in icy air. _But here I am warm – here I will **always** be warm_… He traces the swell of her lower lip with his thumb and sighs to see her eyes roll closed at his touch.

“Mmm,” murmurs Nell, threading her fingers through his, her lashes swept down on her cheeks. “These hands… these warrior’s hands.” She kisses his knuckles, smiling to hear his groan. “These hands that saved me… that made me feel clean and whole and true again.” Her lips feather across his palm as her hips roll and rock. “They smoothed away the sting of seaspray and storm that had come before.” She sinks her teeth very gently into the heel of his hand. “They turned me from iron to ice, from salt to snow… they made me yours that night and always, Eddard Stark.”

He buries his face into her neck at that, nipping the soft skin below her ear as he thrusts up inside her, his fingers settling again at her waist and holding her storm steady as she grinds against him. Her head is tipped back, her eyes tight shut as she levels her face skyward and moans his name. _Sweet_ , thinks Ned to hear it. _Sweeter than any song ever sung_. Flickers of dawn break through the half-empty canopy of the godswood; her blue-grey eyes are glowing when she looks back at him, her lip between her teeth as she ripples around him, her thighs stretched wide across his hips, her fingernails leaving hard marks on the plump muscles of his shoulders, her hair dragonglass and embers and fireflame as sunlight begins to burst through leaf and bough and shadow. He wants to laugh and cry and sob and shout; her mouth shapes with want of the same. _Hearth and home and heart tree_ , he remembers the words he whispered to her that day he rode from Winterfell and left her behind. _She is all three to me, now, forever, always_ … He remembers the fire of their reunion in his solar atop the Tower of the Hand, he remembers every look and threat and move she made to save him from the adders that nested in the Red Keep – and he loves her for it with such sudden ferocity that he _does_ laugh and cry and sob and shout. She does, too, her arms winding tight around his neck and drawing him flush against her.

“I love you, Nell Northwood,” whispers Ned as they rock slowly together now. He runs his fingers between the crooks of her ribs, his thumbs tracing soft circles on her skin. He rests his brow to hers and rubs his nose against her own. “By the old gods and the new… I love you.” He gives a low chuckle as she clenches around him, her breath a sweet moan as she comes and cries out against his mouth. “Sweeter than any song ever sung.” He catches her lip between his teeth, eyes wolf-wild. “Will you sing it again for me, my love?”

The sun is high above the eastern hills by the time Ned and Nell fall breathless amongst the crooked roots of the heart tree. They are clad in half-laced clothes and a thousand russet-green leaves fallen upon them thick as winter cloaks. Heat drifts away with the leaves; Nell shivers in his arms. Ned draws her closer beneath the folds of his cloak; she nestles her cheek against its fur-trim and he sighs and holds her tighter. They lean against the oak tree together a while, fingers woven as one beneath the folds of wool and velvet and fur and russet-green.

Ned kisses her brow. “I went through my bannermen’s letters.”

“Pretty daughters and prettier dowries.” Nell strokes the silver-wrought direwolf pinning his cloak. “Did you find any as doe-eyed as the maid of sunshine you found our good king?”

He shifts her onto his lap again, levels her face with a great hand and fights the smile from his face as he looks full at her. She meets his eyes with a quizzical frown: winter storm drinking in blue-grey sea. Her head tilts in that beloved way and he bites his lip and strokes a thumb along her cheek.

“Aye, I found one out of all the hundreds,” murmurs Ned, drawing his fingers through the black silk of her hair, whispering the column of her throat. “Doe-eyed she can be… but there is fire in her, too.”

Nell tilts toward his touch, a half-certain smile flickering on her lips. “Fire, is there?” She kisses his thumb as it passes over her lips. “What else?”

Ned narrows his gaze at her, sweeping his thumb the swell of her lower lip. “Storm,” he whispers. “Plenty of that.” He robs her smile with his kiss, running his thumb across her cheekbone as he draws back. “Wildflowers – that’s what makes her cheeks so bright and eyes so blue.” He lands kisses where his thumb treads now. “Velvet in her voice… iron in her glare.” He captures her sigh with his lips, pulls back to rub his nose against hers, and feathers his thumb the soft silk of her mouth as her nails dig into his hand beneath the folds of cloak. “Ice – to match the blood of the lord who loves her.”

“Did you bring me out here before the dawn just to kiss me?” murmurs Nell.

He smiles at her, shakes his head. “No,” he breathes. “No, Nell Northwood… I brought you out here so the gods can see.”

“See what?”

“See me ask you to be mine forever.”

“What are you saying, Ned Stark?”

“Marry me.” Ned kisses the shock from her face, gives a laugh so rich with delight that she cannot keep from laughing too. “Be my wife.” He rests his brow to hers and stares at her with eyes that show every part of his soul. “Be mine forever, for _always_.” His head rocks back with the force of her kiss as she wraps herself around him like ivy; her smile on his is the sweetest song ever sung. “Marry me, Nell Northwood.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sweet sunlit serendipitous goodness: wolf and ward soon to become ward and wife… even as whispers await the morrow. ❤️


	24. Until Dusk

“Dusk?” Nell’s voice is a crack of ice in the frost-edged forest; but her eyes are fire when Ned turns to look at her. “ _Dusk_?”

Ned fights a smile, stares at her solemn as an owl. “It is the way of the old gods,” he says, taking her hand and drawing her along the path cut between elm and alder and black cottonwood. “You said yes, Nell Northwood… and I mean to act on it before you have time to change your mind.” He winces as her fingers flash up to pinch a mark left by her teeth on his neck; she pushes him easily back against a tree, eyes still flaming. “Are you all fire now? Where has the ice gone?”

A smile strings up her lips even as she fights it; they grin like children caught at kissing. Feather-light, she ghosts a kiss against his smile, her eyes blue flame glowing in the sunlight. “The way of the old gods.” Her voice is softer now. “To fuck at dawn and be wed the same dusk… is _that_ the truth, Ned Stark?” She tilts her head and runs her thumb over his lip. “Seems to me we’ve got it the wrong way around.”

“We make our own way,” murmurs Ned, his voice soft as hers, his eyes steel-sharp with sincerity. “We always have.”

“Aye,” whispers Nell, breathing in the smoke of his breath as it curls on the icy air. “ _That_ is the truth of it, my love.” She sighs as he runs a skein of her hair through his fingers, tugging it as gently as the smile that lifts his lips. “Dusk, then.”

“Dusk.” A kiss as gentle as his smile. “Until dusk, Nell Northwood.”

They part now: two shadows flitting as raven’s wings through the sunlit godswood, dipping past the drifting leaves and tumbledown archways. Nell expects the yard to be empty; but it is full of shapes and shouts when they emerge bright-eyed and beaming onto the frost-edged cobbles. A ragged cheer goes up, hands clapping to vie with the blackbird’s song ringing sweet-sharp as swordplay in the middle bailey. Ned is borne away to the council chamber by Robert, Renly, and half a dozen northmen pummelling his shoulder and throwing each other white-wide smiles. A tide of autumn flowers sweeps Nell up and carries her from the cobblestones: Sansa grasping her fingers, Arya with an arm around her hip, Margaery at the crook of her elbow, a dozen cousins in green-and-gold skipping alongside as they cut their way to Maegor’s Holdfast.

“You knew,” says Nell as they spin their path into the ebony room with its plates of silver lit sunset shades by fire-blush. “ _All_ of you knew.”

“All of us,” agrees Sansa with the sweetest smile. “And the rest, too.”

Nell looks at her quizzically, fine black brows flickering as Sansa draws her to the long darkwood table and bids her sit. They call for tea and oatcakes, honey warm from the comb, sweetgrass and strawberries half-stunted by heavy frosts, silver-plated cups of summerwine warmed with spices. Letters are brought out with the food: a dozen or more, stamped and sealed with wax and sigil in more colours and shapes than Nell can count. Flame-red, blue-green, earth-brown, rose-pink, night-black, Nell runs her fingers over them once Sansa has set them down before her.

“The rest?” asks Nell, flicking her gaze from the letters.

Sansa’s eyes are warm sapphires in the mixed blaze of fireflame and sunlight. “The rest,” she says softly, sliding across a letter sealed with the same grey wax as Nell’s gown. “Wyman Manderly, Helman Tallhart, the Greatjon, Rickard Karstark – even the Lord of the Dreadfort.” Her copper brows lift to match the curve of her smile. “Each offers blessings for your beauty and blood-bond to their liege lord… _all_ the northern lords, great and small.” She slides into her seat, her fingers finding Nell’s and gripping tight. “Do my brothers send curse or kiss?”

“Kiss,” whispers Nell, her eyes flickering over Bran’s neat script and Rickon’s scrawled note at the bottom of the curling paper. “A lick from Shaggydog, too.” They laugh as she sets down the letter with a shaking hand and gazes at Sansa, her throat damp. “I don’t understand how this has come to be, Sansa Stark.”

“A sennight of secrets and stolen sleep,” says Sansa primly, every bit the lady as she laces her fingers with Nell’s and dandles her wine-cup in her other hand. “By the time I whispered to you of sweetness and sunlight as we danced in the small hall, the wheel was almost full-turned.” She takes a sip of summerwine. “I had letters from Robb and near half the northern lords hidden in every crook of my chambers should you chance to find them accidentally, the letters you pore over now granting blessing and approval… yet I _know_ you, Nellie – I knew you would find some reason to cry that you were not worthy of my lord father.” Her eyes are fierce and bright. “So, with a spider and a thorn at either side of me, we found a secret of salt and blood to spin full-tilt the coin of change.”

Nell’s eyes narrow. “The coin of change – ”

“Twists with the seasons,” comes a sharp voice at her ear. “Summer is long dead, autumn dwindles – winter strides mean and hungry as the hour of the wolf.” A soft chuckle, a creak of old bones as Olenna Tyrell settles in her seat. “The wolf for true… _and_ the ward at his side.” She meets Nell’s eyes with a petal-soft smile. “Or am I free to call you _wife_ now, Nell Northwood?”

“Not yet,” says Nell, feeling gratitude surge warm as the wine in her belly. “Until dusk, I am as I have ever been: ward, handmaid, woman.”

“Worthy.” Olenna finds her other hand and squeezes it. “ _That_ is what you are, child.” She taps the table sharply, a merry smile on her face. “Now open your letters and finish your oatcake, you’ve a wedding to be dressed for.”

They leave Nell for a moment to her wine-cup and warm honey and wax-broken letters. Flame-red, blue-green, earth-brown, rose-pink, she slides her thumb beneath each seal and unfolds the papers, remembering the faces of the men whose words she reads. _And their greedy fingers_ , she thinks wryly as she smiles at the Greatjon’s gruff blessing. _Bereft of groping me at feast-days and harvest-time now I am to be his lady_. Nell bites her lip to think of the madness of it all and picks up the last letter. Night-black wax on ivory paper: ebony wings against a white sky, words flown down from the Wall by the Lord Commander. She turns it in her hands, frowns at an etching the size of her thumbnail drawn in ink beside her name; her heart flutters. _Little wolf_. She traces its shape, remembers scratches of charcoal and sweeps of black ink drawn by the plump hand of a solemn little boy sitting his lessons amongst the grey stones of Winterfell. _My black-haired boy_ … Her heart flits like a bird caught between her ribs; she picks apart the wax and pulls open the letter.

ლ

Seven sit the small council as the sun crests the sky. Ned casts an eye over the seat empty of all but a stack of wine-dark cushions; the master of coin has been sent on some errand in the docklands, finding coins that writhe from the royal coffers slippery as eels. Still, even absent Tyrion Lannister proves apt and able; already debts are drawn in, loans arranged, and account books levelled. _A little man_ , thinks Ned to watch the sunlight slip shadows over the wine-dark cushions. _But a capable one, at least_. He looks the rest of them over now: Mace Tyrell plump and proud in sage-green silks, Paxter Redwyne an azure shadow at his side, Barristan Selmy white-bearded as his cuirass, Renly and Robert black-haired blue-eyed shadows grinning at each other over bawdy jokes and black bread, and Varys slippery as his smiles and soft words, shifting to murmur a blessing to Ned.

“I must needs stop calling her my lady of the salt winds,” titters the master of whisperers, his chuckle pealing like tinkling bells. “Now she is to be wed to the lord of winter, she will be a lady of the _white_ winds.” A smile slippery-soft as his white hands twisting sleeves of plum velvet. “ _Such_ sweet news, Lord Stark.”

Ned dips his head stiffly. “Sweet, for true.”

“Sour must counter sweet this morrow, however,” says Varys, pulling a scroll from his sleeve with a mournful half-smile. “News from the north, my lords.”

At the lift of his voice, the chatter and chuckle falls quiet. Gradually, bone-cups are lowered and black bread left unchewed as the lords of the small council turn ear and eye to the master of whisperers risen from his seat. Robert slouches back against his chair and waves a hand.

Varys inclines his head. “A raven found perch in the rookery at dawn, carrying tidings from the Wall… and beyond it.” The scroll he clasps bears a broken seal of night-black wax. “The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch writes of wildlings gathering in the mountain passes and certain… _shadows_ in the night leaving cold, corpse and chaos to mark their wake.” He rolls up the letter, taps it against a plum-soft sleeve. “But it is not the Lord Commander’s warnings of wildlings and wraiths that need concern us… it is the new recruit he has welcomed into his ranks.”

Ned feels a prickle of ice rise along his spine despite the flare of flame in the hearthside. Robert sits up a little in his high-backed chair, jet-and-gold ring flashing with the fireflame as his hand works across his great black beard.

“Recruit?” he asks gruffly. “Why would some petty thief from White Harbor need concern us, Lord Varys?”

Varys gives a soft little chuckle. “Would that it _were_ a common thief from White Harbor, Your Grace… alas, it is not so.” He sets the letter down upon the ebony table and looks directly at Mace Tyrell with a slippery smile. “It seems your son was mistaken, my lord.”

“Mistaken?” says Mace Tyrell, gold-brown eyes narrowing sharply.

“Indeed,” replies Varys, glancing from he to the king. “Garlan the Galant told of a chained captive succumbing to fever and flux – and sleeping sound forever in a shallow grave dug along the River Road.” He lifts a brow. “Would that it was so, my lords.” He pushes the letter across the ebony table; Robert lifts it warily. “The Lord Commander writes of a man with a shaven head and a rotted sword-hand… and eyes of emerald green.”

Ned sees those cat-eyes now, gleaming green through sheets of rain leaving rivers in the street that black night half a lifetime ago; remembers, too, the wine-dark bruise that purpled Nell’s cheek for weeks after that night of rain and riot. The prickle of ice turns to white-heat at his back, his fingers curl to a fist.

“Jaime Lannister,” grumbles Robert, storm-blue eyes glaring at the letter in his hands. “A brother of the Night’s Watch… and _safe_ from me.” A flash of rage: the scroll bounces across the ebony table and hits Mace Tyrell square in the chest. “How can this be, Lord Mace? Your son _swore_ he saw the Kingslayer buried six feet deep just past Darry.” He gives a gusting sigh. “Does the Lord Commander write true? Are we already in the long night? Do corpses rise and live again?” A reluctant laugh cracks from his throat. “Seven hells, am I dreaming? The _Kingslayer_ a black brother?”

“Why did he go north?” asks Barristan Selmy, his face a firelit frown. “Why did he not turn west and hide in his father’s rock?” Ice-pale eyes incredulous as his voice. “Why would the Kingslayer _ever_ dwell – ”

“His lover is dead,” says Ned, his voice a sudden crack of ice that rumbles like thunder to cut them all to quiet. “His lord father is humbled, his brother is honour-sworn to sit the small council… his family, his _pride_ , is scattered and subdued – what need have they of the Young Lion now?” He unfurls his fingers to wave a dismissive hand. “West or south meant certain death, Jaime Lannister knew that. He had no choice but to head north.”

A chorus now, several voices babbling at once.

“Winter is coming,” says Ned grimly, silencing them all with a deep-set frown. “It is no bad thing to have a swordsman like Jaime Lannister protecting the realms of men from the wildlings and wraiths beyond the Wall.”

“A swordsman without his sword- _hand_ ,” charges Robert, shaking the letter in a fist. “He took a wound in the fight to free himself from his chains. Hand rotted all the way to the Wall till the Watch’s maester struck it off.” He rolls his eyes skyward. “What was the Old Bear _thinking_ …” He tails off as he scans the last of the letter; storm-blue eyes rise to meet with those of winter-grey across the table. “Seven hells, Ned.”

Varys steps forward before Ned can speak. “Jeor Mormont led a sortie of men beyond the Wall and sent his rangers forth to scout the Frostfangs.” An idle white finger trails the swell of forest on the sheepskin map spread out upon the ebony table, slips up to a ragged mountain range picked out in blue-grey ink. “From scant reports and scattered ravens, it seems they were set upon by certain _shadows_ in the night and fled to a rickety holdfast a day’s ride from the Wall… it was there the Old Bear met his end.” Varys gives a dramatic shudder. “Mutiny… such an _ugly_ affair.”

“Seems the Kingslayer will be right at home,” says Renly once Varys has spun his tale of murder and mutiny. “Dishonour and desertion – a song he knows well the tune of.”

“I will send word to my son Robb.” Ned feels the sweet joy of the morrow fading distant as a dream; white-heat trickling back to ice along his neck. “Word to my bannermen, too.” He taps a finger against his down-turned lips thoughtfully. “Men must be sent to bolster the black brothers’ ranks… archers, foot-soldiers, a handful of horse made ready to defend the Wall should these wildlings and wraiths move beyond the Fist of the First Men.” He studies the knots of gully and tundra on the map before him. “Robb must make move there, too, in order that justice is served, deserters punished, and the process for selecting a new Lord Commander begun.”

“Agreed,” says Robert, glancing from Varys to Ned and back again. “Though it seems the Watch is one step ahead of you, Ned.” He passes the letter across the table, a black brow lifting to match his half-smile. “Let us hope the wolf will serve as well as the bear did.”

Ned picks up the letter and recognises the hand in an instant: neat, firm, an odd flourish on dot and cross. _Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch_. The breath turns to fire in Ned’s throat as he thinks of a solemn-eyed boy shouldering lordship as a man grown does a heavy winter cloak. _My black-haired boy_ … He rubs a thumb over the signature, breathes hard through his nose, and feels a smile pull at the strings of his face.

ლ

Day darkens to dusk as women flit around like honeybees, fetching water and perfume and combs and pins. Only Arya stays still, an arm around Nell’s neck as she squats on the table behind her and reads the letter glowing honey in the fire-shadows. Nell holds Arya’s fingers in her own against the beat of her heart, their faces lit by the same white-wide smile to read how Jon Snow fares as lord of his own little kingdom. _Little wolf_ , thinks Nell as her eyes run over the snarling sketch again. _Lord wolf now_. She thinks of him: a blot of black in a world of white, ice and fire smoking together in the valleys snaking blood from heart to throat to lung to wrist. _A crown of winter roses, a bed of blood, a black-haired boy become a man_ … She rubs her thumb over the wolf sketch, breathes softly through her nose, and feels a smile pull tighter at the strings of her face.

Eventually, they prise Arya from her grip on Nell and placate her with the letter already fast-curling at the corners from frenzied reading. Sansa leads her garden of green-and-gold flowerheads, throwing instructions out for the honeybees to buzz around. Nell is stripped to her shift, scrubbed in a copper tub before the fire till her skin glows pink as the sky without, dried with linen sheets, and daubed with oils hard-pressed with wildflowers. Sansa sets her on a stool drawn close to the darkwood hearth and brushes out her hair as Nell has done to copper curls a thousand times.

“I always loved your hair, Nellie.” Sansa hums as she works. “Like black silk or a midnight sky… when I was little, I fancied I could see stars sparkling in its depths when you bent over my bed to sing me to sleep.” She leans her chin onto Nell’s shoulder, the brush stilling in her fingers. “A trick of the light mayhap… yet even now I see the same: little diamonds in a blue-black sky.”

True, it glitters like a star-studded sky once Sansa is done with her brushing. A wave of dragonglass glowed to embers by the fireflame, half-bound, half-loose in the northern style: an ink cloud of tiny plaits and loose curls sweeping to Nell’s hips. They give her warm spiced wine and bid her wait as they slip out of the ebony chamber to fetch her wedding gown. _Another secret_ , thinks Nell as she sips her wine and tidies Arya’s wind-swept hair. _Another sweet, sweet secret_. A swipe of a damp cloth and the wolf-pup’s face is _almost_ clean, soft-cheeked and smiling as it is. Arya is busy fending off Nell’s tidying touches as the doors clang open; they turn together and gawp.

If Nell’s hair is a star-studded sky, the gown Sansa holds proudly in her arms is sun and moon and all the blazes of light in the Seven Kingdoms. Olenna Tyrell slaps Nell’s hand gently in response to stuttered thanks and watches with a petal-soft smile from her high-backed chair as Sansa pulls laces and evens sleeves and smooths skirts. The gown is thick white velvet with dove-grey underskirts, the bodice embroidered with cloth-of-silver swirls and snarling direwolves. Shining thread chases up the sleeves, sparkling shapes of sea-waves and saltspray catching the lurching fireflame and throwing up glitter and speckles of starlight to play across the sweet-smelling rushes underfoot. The wolf’s head howls from its silver chain about her neck, moonstone glimmers at her ears and wrists; the flowerheads bob around her and swear she is winter reborn, a goddess, a sprite, some pretty spirit escaped from the clouds. Arya calls them fools and says if Nell is anything it is a _mermaid_ for all the sea shanties she can sing and how far she used to swim in Winterfell’s moat come summer. Nell bites her lip at that to hide her smile, only to fail miserably when Arya darts off to reappear with a crown of wildflowers on her sleek dark head – and two more clutched in her hand.

“Sansa made them,” says Arya firmly as the lie rages clear as winter storm across her grey eyes. “I just picked the colours.”

Nell turns the wreath over in her fingers, finds the petals still sweet-smelling despite the frost turning softness to hard edges and ice-limned curves. _Pearl and crimson and indigo_. A weave of dragon’s breath and bellflowers and meadowsweets: a copy of the crown Nell wove for Arya on Maiden’s Day all those moons ago. _A day for pretty girls in dresses_ – _not water dancers_. Her heart is glowing as the flames; she bends forward, melts the scowl off Arya’s face as she presses a kiss to the sleek dark head. A wolfish grin, quick sword-strong fingers flickering up to pin the crown of wildflowers into place atop the star-sky hair.

“You won’t be different once you’re a lady, will you?” whispers Arya, her voice low and soft at Nell’s ear. “You won’t take my sword off me and stop my lessons with Syrio and try and make me a proper little girl, will you? You won’t stop singing sailor’s rhymes and shanties about rude things and tales of sea-monsters and krakens and – ”

“Everything will be just the same as it has always been,” murmurs Nell, feeling her throat thicken with warmth and love and laughter as she draws back and smooths the dark hair from Arya’s brow. “I will still be Nellie and you will still be Arya Stark, water dancer and singer of sword-song with all the bailey boys beaten blue at your feet.”

Arya laughs at that, a rich happy sound that bleeds into Nell’s belly as she catches hold of her handmaid in a fierce embrace and then draws back, scowling as best she can through the sweet smile lifting her little cheeks. “I am glad of that,” she whispers. “And glad of you, Nellie… and glad of _all_ this.”

The doors slam open and a stag bounds in: all six-and-a-half feet of him, canopied in thick black-and-gold velvet, coal-dark beard shining with oil, a grin glinting like white-cut pearl behind it. Robert Baratheon kisses his queen, sidles like a scared boy around his good-grandmother, and crosses the chamber in three huge strides to halt before Nell and sweep an extravagant bow, catching up her hand and carrying it to his lips. His storm-blue eyes are soft as he lays her hand in the crook of his arm and smiles down at her.

“A royal decree and a wedding before a heart tree, that was the promise I made you, Nell Northwood,” says Robert, voice a sparkle to match his eyes. “ _This_ is my decree: I will walk in your lord father’s stead to give you to that man of ice and snow you make melt like a milkmaid in springtime.” He grins as she gives a soft chuckle and grips his arm tighter. “Shall we make move to that heart tree now, my lady?”

“Yes,” murmurs Nell, her full lips trembling in a smile sweet as honey. “Yes, my king.”

They emerge from the darkwood chamber into the fire-blush dusk. The world is pink and orange and softest yellow, limning the cobblestones and turrets and towers and tumbling hillside in half a hundred shades of firelit frost. A dark cloak sits heavy upon Nell’s shoulders; even so, her gown glitters bright as starlight, threading ribbons of silver-flame to guide her path toward the godswood. Her steps are soft and sure on the ice-edged cobblestones. Her heart is a steady thrum matching the bootstep of her walk toward where fate and love and destiny and ten years of longing await her in the shadows thrown by the heart tree.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Little wolf becomes a lord, a fled captive becomes a brother, and wolf and ward are soon-to-become wolf and _wife_ … here we go! 🎉  
>  **NB** : chronologically, we are roughly cheek-to-cheek with _A Storm of Swords_ , though autumn has proved harsher, colder and _quicker_ than in-canon. Jeor Mormont was murdered at Craster’s Keep, Jon has returned from ranging beyond the Wall and is freshly-elected as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I have in mind a 5-10ish chapter sequel to this once Chapter 25 has been written and published, drawing on the threads of secrets woven in this work… we’ll see. But next: a wedding!


	25. Wreath

It is as it always should have been. Tree, leaf, soil, river’s rush: a northman’s song. Sunlight in place of stained glass; godswood in place of a sept. No man in holy robes bearing crystal in his hand and soft incantations to the seven on his lips – there is only a heart tree standing sentinel over this world where men and gods come to meet.

Ned stands amongst the shadows and crooked roots, watching the sunlight filter through the half-empty canopy. Pink and orange and softest yellow, the dusky rays limn bough and leaf and root and soil half a hundred shades of firelit frost. The silver wolf’s head pinning his heavy fur-trimmed cloak catches like a flint to flame: a flare of light bright as the stars beginning to peek over the eastern hills. His breath curls upward in a cloud of smoke, twisting, drifting as the red-gold leaves across the black pool in the godswood of home. _Wedding vows and winter roses_ , he thinks to watch it burn as white frost on sunlit air. _Two souls in the shadows of a heart tree_ … He trails a hand across the rough bark of the oak tree, traces the etched lines of its face, and thinks of home: bone-white boughs of the weirwood tree, the glossy pool at its foot, all the stolen kisses hidden amongst its drifts of red-gold leaves, soft words of song set to soothe all the aches and pains and secrets spun over ten years of love and life. His heart flutters as wings between his ribs; overhead, a blackbird picks up a sweet little tune.

Footsteps cut through the quiet; Ned turns to his fate.

“Who comes?” he asks. “Who comes before the old gods?”

“Elenore of House Orkwood comes here to be wed.” Robert’s quiet voice a bellow in the near silence of the leaves. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the old gods… who comes to claim her?”

“Me,” says Ned. “Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King. I claim her.” His voice lilts with the blackbird’s song; his heartbeat mirrors its flitting wings. “Who gives her?”

“Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

In a dream-daze, elm and alder and black cottonwood drift aside and the king steps out to follow the echoes of his voice. Dying sunlight turns him pink and orange as the sky, his storm-blue eyes a glitter of sapphire above the coal-dark beard bare hiding his broad white grin. Behind him, half a hundred shadows swell: Sansa and Arya in grey-and-white gowns with crowns of wildflowers in their hair, Olenna Tyrell propped up by her granddaughter in swathes of green-and-gold brocade, a spray of little roses clad in silks with smiles of pearl, the lords of the small council a clutch of bejewelled peacocks, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole with squares of linen dabbing at their eyes. Beside him, with fingers gripping tightly to a black-and-gold sleeve, is Nell.

Ned’s knees are water; a breath of breeze and they would buckle. Still, he staggers a little, sways on his feet as she drifts toward him on the arm of the king. A gown white as snow, but she is starlight: silver-flame, sparkling, eddying, rippling, chasing the shadows of the godswood and turning them to sunlight. Snarling direwolves and sleeves of sea-waves and saltspray; half a thousand silver threads glowing true as the love that burns his heart. His fingers ache to run through the black silk of her hair, half-bound half-loose to match with his, spilling in a flare of dragonglass to her hips. A flicker of dusky light, and cloud of ink turns to embers, pours as firelit honey down her back. She draws close to him, lashes swept down on her velvet cheeks as she keeps her gaze to the frost-edged soil; he sees her fingers tremble where they rest on Robert’s arm.

“Lady Elenore,” says Robert, laying his hand atop hers. “Will you take this man?”

Nell raises her eyes and looks from the king to Ned. Blue-grey and brilliant, they take his breath as they took it ten years past. She looks at him and she _sees_ him – all of him, every shame and secret, every smile and shout, every flare and fury, every worry and wonder, every tragedy and triumph: she hooks his heart to her own and cradles it safe as a fledgling in a soft-cupped palm. He wants to take her face in his hands and kiss her, but he waits patient as a wolf, biting his lip to stem the words that fight to spill sweet and thick as honey from his tongue, his eyes on hers as she gives a half-smile that breaks his heart and pulls it tight together all at once.

“I take this man,” murmurs Nell.

Robert smiles and gently takes her hand from his arm, his thumb a swift sweep across her fingers as he sets them in Ned’s open palm. They weave at once together: soft-ivory and sword-rough, laced tight as the hold her smile keeps around his heart. Around them, the shadows swell to watch as they dip down to their knees before the heart tree, hands clasped, hearts singing a tune near as sweet as the blackbird’s song in the branches overhead. Quietly, Nell untangles her fingers and presents her palm to him, her eyes blue flame in the flares of chill sunlight eking through the half-bare trees. Ned lifts her palm to his lips, presses a kiss to her skin, and then pricks it swiftly with the dagger. She watches as he runs the blade across his own palm and sets it down upon the leaves before linking his fingers back between hers. Their clasped palms bleed together as Ned bends forward and rests his brow to hers, drinking in the smoke of her breath, scenting it with his.

A drop of blood falls from their grip. It smokes like mist; the dark frost-edged soil sucks it up as if it is sweet as nectar. _Flesh of my flesh_. Her eyes say to him. _Blood of my blood_. He says to her heart. _Bone of my bone_. Their palms sing to each other, clotting together as tree-sap, binding as only blood can bind. _Hearth, home and heart tree – always_ …

“In the eyes of the old gods, you are bound: one flesh, one heart, from this day until the end of your days.” Robert’s voice echoes somewhere in the mists that swell above the only fixed thing in this world of men and gods: her eyes soft as fire-blush on his. “Rise now, as one – and seal your bond with cloak and kiss.”

The dark cloak is slipped from her shoulders as they rise together from their perch amongst the crooked roots of the heart tree. A drift of snow settles in its place: white fur fastened with a running wolf at her throat. Silver-and-moonstone, the brooch catches the last of the dying sunlight as Ned draws back from pinning it. His thumb smooths over the moonstone before tracing the white curve of her throat, shuddering to a stop over the soft swell of her lower lip. It lingers there, gently stroking, as he gazes down at her.

“I have something for you, my love,” he murmurs.

“A kiss?” she whispers, laughter in her blue-grey eyes.

“That, too.” He smiles as he slips the bundle of cloth from his pocket, keeps his gaze fixed on hers as he unwraps it slowly and proffers it toward her. “This first.”

“Oh, _Ned_ …” she says softly, her voice full of wonder as her blue-wide eyes. “Love, it is beautiful as the sea.” She turns the ring in her fingers, watches as the fading sunlight flickers across it: a thin band from Tobho Mott’s own forge, silver-wrought with a wolf’s head howling at its centre, eyes of grey sapphire flaring near as blue as the gaze that drinks it now. “For me, for true?”

“For you.” Ned slips it onto her finger. “For true.”

There is a ragged cheer as Nell surges to her tiptoes and lands a kiss that leaves Ned breathless and buckling. He runs his hands through the black silk of her hair, all its twists and plaits and woven wildflowers, rubs it between his fingers and feels a smile pull at the strings of his face – well-matched by her own soft as song against his lips.

ლ

Frost falls thick as snow without, but within the great hall fireflame and feast glow bright as embers half the night. Pillar and plinth are woven with half a thousand flowers: heather, cyclamen, pansies, aconites, winter jasmine, snowdrops, dahlias. Soft-edged petals catch the glow of torch and hanging candle and glow rich shades of purple, yellow, pink, and ivory. _Flowers of autumn_ , thinks Nell as she spins amongst their drifts and twists. _Safe for now from winter’s white winds_. Sansa grabs her hand and pulls her across the flagstones, twirling and giggling, copper curls bleeding with a cloud of ink as they step aft and around prettily together. From an ash-flecked scrap with a spit-boy, Arya bounds up, a white grin glinting beneath soot-streaked cheeks as she capers about beside them. They laugh and leap together, wolf-pup, winter rose, and handmaid, till Arya scampers back to her scrap and Sansa folds bright-cheeked back into her seat.

Soon, all the hall starts to clap and chorus; a boy is sent to fetch the handmaid’s harp and Nell finds herself propelled between two flower-draped pillars, a thousand hands making merry storm ring in her ears as they chant and stamp. She laughs, sets her fingers to her silver-stringed harp and works a merry little tune to lilt and lift amongst the rafters. The candleflame flickers across the silver-wrought ring banding her finger; her eyes fall upon it in a dream, watching as the light plays on the waves of the metal: here blue-grey, there green-black, everywhere silver-threaded white-capped as the sea that swirled around her the day Ned pulled her from its grip. She finds his eyes up on the dais beside the king and queen now; winter-storm drinking in starlit sea. Softly, she begins her song.

“ _I once was a sailor, a young man and brave_

_Da-da dum-day, da-da dum-dee_

_My nights were once sleepless_

_My peace I would crave_

_Carry me home to the sea_.”

Quiet settles thick as the frost without; bone-cups thump softly upon tabletops, trenchers are pushed aside, dancing feet stop and stand and stare, wolf-pup shoves spit-boy back amongst the ashes and runs to sit on her father’s lap, winter rose threads her fingers with her husband’s and sways softly against his shoulder with warm sapphire eyes gazing out. _Sweet_. Nell sets her spell across the feast; fire-blush catching every silver thread of her sleeves, turning her soft as starlight in a hall of fireflame and flowers. _Life is made sweet again for my girls, for he – and now for me_ … He sees the thought behind her eyes as if it drifts up as smoke from her hair; he smiles, a hand on his daughter’s sleek dark head, his grey eyes soft as summer storm.

“ _Da-da dum-day, da-da dum-dee_

_Drift away sailor boys on the deep sea_

_Worry no more for you’re safe now with me_

_Rest in my arms and my sweet melody_.”

Echoes of the sea-song last long after Nell sets down her harp and sings the last lilting note. It lingers sweet as woodsmoke, drifting to curl amongst the high rafters, feathering the petals glowing half a hundred shades of autumn in the fire-glow around plinth and pillar, threading soft as lullaby the ears of those half-asleep in their cups, mixing with the chatter and chuckle of a dream-drunk crowd. Nell slips amongst them, her hand kissed by half a hundred lords, her cheek squeezed by Olenna Tyrell as an indulgent grandmother to a child, her health toasted with silver-plated cups of summerwine, her beauty praised by the bard plucking idly at his cittern, her hips whistled at by Winterfell guards who have known her half her life and bask in her indulgent laughter till their lord shoots them a look that would wither roses from the dais. She kisses Jory’s cheek and leaves them laughing at how red his ears have grown.

Nell breathes the icy air deep as she steps out onto the ice-edged cobblestones of the outer yard, the feast a flicker of flame behind her. She follows the pull of the night, threading a path in torchlight and shadow, wondering at the madness of it all with a wry smile on her face. _Three names I have had_ , she thinks. _Orkwood, Northwood, Stark_. A little hitch in her throat as she says it to herself, as she lets her heart sing out who she is now. _Three roles I have served_. She bites her lip and glances at the star-speckled sky stretched ink-blue above the glowing castle. _Whore, handmaid, wife_. She looks at the silver-wrought ring howling on her finger and smiles. _Worthy_ , she near whispers it within her own head, feeling it rise up as smoke to the sky to linger amongst the stars. _I am **worthy** of them all_.

ლ

Half a thousand stars, Ned feels the glow of each and every flare as fire within his blood, melting the frost from his bones, the ice from his heart. He slides out through the brass-fitted doors of the great hall, steals a glance to where he left his sleeping daughter curled up in the Hand’s high-backed chair upon the dais, her sleek dark head tucked against the spill of wine-dark cushions. The merry sound of feast and fireflame follow him as he makes his path beneath the star-speckled sky, his boots setting their rhythm steady as a wolf over the frost-edged cobblestones.

It is as it should be, the world made white by frost, the sky ink-dark and scattered with stars, the air icy enough to turn breath to smoke and lungs to pinpricks. Mixed glow of torch and moon lights his way, but he has no need of them: he feels her here in the half-light, her path a thread that pulls his feet as well as his heart, bids him follow her deep into the shadowy world where men and gods come to meet.

Elm and alder and black cottonwood, every bough and twig and leaf is limned ivory and pearl as frost sets heavy and moonlight spills thick and free through the half-empty canopy. He hears her song long before he sees her: a song as silver as the forest he threads his way through. Lilting, it tarries and echoes with the drifting leaves falling bluntly to the icy soil; a siren’s spell drawing a wayward sailor home. He hears its words lift clearly as he nears: words of mountains and bears and wolves and heroes brought safely home. He knows at once who she sings for; his heart swells with the same relief that silvers her tune.

“I knew I would find you here,” says Ned, his voice a breath of smoke on the icy air. “Singing to the old gods, sitting in their grove.”

Nell turns from her perch amongst the crooked roots of the heart tree and lifts herself to her feet, a smile sitting sweet as her song lingering still in the forest around them. She steps to him, the wreath of wildflowers upon her hair turned to silver-flame in the moonlight, the frost set heavy on the white fur cloak he fastened about her shoulders come dusk. She lifts her palm toward him. The dagger’s cut is turned to tree-sap already; he touches his palm to hers, feels their blood-bond glide gentle as a lover’s kiss. Their fingers lace together; he pulls her gently toward him, his brow leaning against hers as she rises on tiptoe and presses her mouth to his.

“Little wolf becomes a lord.” Her voice is soft as her kiss, glancing at his lips, slipping sweet as honey on his tongue. “Safe from winter’s white winds… for now.” Her eyes on his, no question nor judgement, only strength steady as her grip on his fingers. “I gave the old gods a song to see him well, give him strength for the days to come, for the truths of ice and fire that will one day be revealed.” She kisses the panic from his face, her thumb lifting to stroke the bridge of his nose, her lips lifting in a smile to match his. “Not yet, Ned Stark… but mayhap one day truth will light where shadows once stood.”

“One day,” whispers Ned, solemn eyes above his smile, his brow twisting on hers. “I can only pray my black-haired boy will forgive me for a lifetime of secrets.”

“He’s a good boy,” says Nell, a fierceness flickering bright as moonlight in her blue-grey eyes. “A strong boy… he’s faced white winds, wildlings, wraiths.” She nods her head, smiles up at him. “He’ll face whatever comes, sure as snow falls thick and free at home.”

Ned kisses her then, steals her sigh and seals it deep within the crooks of his ribs, his hands finding her waist beneath the heavy folds of cloak and drawing her tight to him. They stand and sway in the moonlight, frost-feathered leaves glittering at their feet, the chill breeze lifting through their hair like the breath of the gods. For a moment, they are home again, watching moonlight play silver and white on red-gold leaves as they drift and twist across the glossy black pool of the godswood. They smile now, their breath a blot of smoke mixing as one to rise as mist to the star-speckled sky.

“You are my heart, Nell Northwood,” murmurs Ned, his fingers slipping through the black silk of her hair. “You’re my bones and blood and breath.” He rubs his nose against hers and closes his eyes, breathing in her scent of wildflowers and winter. “If I had not found you that day of seaspray and storm… my love, if I had not found you…”

“You found me, Ned Stark,” whispers Nell, her fingers gliding over his dark hair to settle at the nape of his neck. “The gods made us as one and severed us by land and sea… but that day of seaspray and storm you found me and made me yours again.” He blinks open his eyes and gazes down at her. “As I made you mine.” She smiles up at him and takes his lips with her own, soft and slow. “Ten years… another ten at your side would not be enough, my love.”

“Another ten you’ll have,” breathes Ned, his lips glancing hers, his eyes bleeding stone into a sea of blue-grey storm. “And another ten after that, another and another and another till we’re grey and toothless as Old Nan.” They share a soft smile now in the dappled moonlight of the godswood. “How the singers will love our tale… Ned Stark and Nell Northwood: the wolf and his ward.” A pearl-cut smile that bleeds into their kiss, a flare of fire in a world of frost. “The wolf and his _wife_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Who comes before the old gods_ … lifted (and adapted) from _A Dance with Dragons_ Chapter 20: Reek II. I elaborated the wedding ceremony a little, drawing influences from Celtic hand-fasting; thought it fitting with the ways of the north.  
> 2\. Verses lifted from the beautiful song by Kate Rusby: [Sleepless Sailor.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhrNkvmLto0)  
> 3\. Shame, sickness, secrets, sorrow, sunlight, sweetness – the wolf and his ward have sailed through it all as ships of ice and iron upon a stormy sea. At last, their song can begin for true: two souls in the shadows of a heart tree, bound as one forever and always…❤️  
> 4\. I am not yet _bored_ of Ned and Nell; I continue to think up and thread their tale, whether it leads into a sequel I can’t yet say… but for now **thank you** to each of you that have left kudos and comment here – especially those of you that have given such useful and consistent feedback **every single chapter** , it has made my little heart sing every time I read them through. For now, all is sweet as can be in the world of the wolf and his ward; long may it last… C. x


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